Nine Lives
by Gage93
Summary: Nine stories, nine countries, nine eras, nine lives. What if the soul had nine lives? Would it always find its mate? Sort of based on Sara's, "I feel as though I've loved you forever" My first fanfic, so please r&r. Historical romance, sort of. AU G/S
1. Prologue

**Nine Lives**

**Summary: **What if the soul had nine lives? Nine stories of two mates throughout the ages. Very AU. G/S.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the rights to any of this, CSI, words and quotes from other authors that will appear later, and so on. I borrow lovingly, but without permission.

**Author's note: **This is my first fan fiction and is I think, crazily ambitious for a first. I've been reading a lot of fan fiction lately, missing Grissom and Sara so much on CSI and I decided to try writing something of my own to keep my mind working until school restarts. I didn't think I'd like non-canon stories, but found myself completely engrossed in some of them, and from that, I decided to try my own AU story. I'd appreciate any comments, constructive criticism or encouragement anyone reading this can offer. Thank you.

Rated M for later chapters.

**Prologue**

_**San Francisco, 1998**_

He stepped up to the podium, his notes in his hands, though he knew he'd only glance down at them a few times, checking to make sure a quote would be read correctly or a date would be accurate. His colleagues, or rather, members of the same profession, most faces unknown to him, began to filter into the room.

He looked out the window or the hotel conference room they'd borrowed for the convention. Outside, the sky was overcast, the damp air floating around, light drops of rain falling onto the ground. It was muggy and hot but such a welcome change from the dry heat of Las Vegas. He'd enjoyed the trip thus far, though it was only the opening day of the convention. Still, he got to speak and to teach, which was always enjoyable. And, later, when not sitting in on the conferences that interested him, he planned on taking some time to do some sightseeing and explore the Bay area. From there he'd travel south, visit with his mother, taking some time to recharge before returning to Las Vegas.

He turned his attention back to the room, noticing most people were seated, waiting for him to begin. A few people were still straggling into the room and searching for a place to seat. Just then, two people entered, a man, followed closely by a woman. The man was saying something, causing the woman to laugh, tilting her head back as she did so. It was not what caught his attention. No, his attention became fixed once her head came forward and her eyes met his. Grissom stopped moving, standing stock still, staring at the woman as though he knew he from somewhere. She looked so familiar, though he was sure that if he saw her before, he'd remember. She was approximately in her mid-twenties, tall and thin, with nice skin, tanned and unblemished. Her brown hair had been thrown up into a pony tail. Her eyes were a deep brown that sparked as she smiled. Her front teeth had a small gap that somehow was not at all unattractive. No, in fact she was very attractive, beautiful in a very natural way. He had to have seen her somewhere, a previous conference perhaps, but he couldn't fathom forgetting that beauty. Already it was etched into his mind and his mind was very gifted at remembering detail. Beautiful detail such as hers would not escape it.

She was staring at him too, with a focused and familiar look in her own eyes, like she was thinking the same thing, that they'd met before, somewhere. She had stopped from moving as well. For moments, the room was empty of everyone but them. "Sara," somebody called and she turned, glancing back at him one more time before shaking her head and walking into the room. The man who called her was the man she entered with. He had found them seats and was beckoning her to join in. Grissom just stared as she moved towards her seat, joining her colleague and laughing at whatever the young man was saying.

He gave his own head a shake, turning back to his notes and preparing himself to speak. He looked over at the rest of the room, dropping his notes to the podium, and pushing the girl, Sara, from his mind for the moment. "Hello, I'm Gil Grissom…"


	2. The Greek, I

**A/N: **Thank you to those who reviewed the first chapter. Here is the deal with this story. I have most of the stories somewhat mapped out in my head, but I'm still missing a couple of lives to add in there. If anyone has any ideas about a time and country and I'm not using either the country or the time period, and I think I can make a story out of it, I may use it. Feel free to wait and read and see if I can do justice to it. We'll be in Greece for awhile.

Oh, and at first Grissom and Sara's names will be different for the first couple of stories, as those names would not have been used yet. Later, when I reach places and they could have been used, I will be using them for simplicity's sake (I can't tell you how many times I've typed in the name Sara only to have to change it. If I've missed one, please forgive me).

Thank You.

**The Nine Lives of Grissom and Sara: The First Life**

_The fates were busy. A soul was created, favored by the gods and endowed with the greatest of virtues: honor, nobility, intelligence, modesty, devotion, honesty, sincerity, wit and wisdom. The gods decreed that such a favored soul deserved a mate, an eternal love to accompany the soul during its travels on earth. Thus, they created a mate, strong and devoted, sending the mate to earth one day after the soul. It was up to the fates to map out the courses of the lives of the soul and its mate. The journeys the two were about to take would not be easy. The soul would have to prove worthy, for the greatest of loves involve a battle, sometimes only within._

**The Greek, I**

_Long before Romeo and Juliet, Ovid told of Pyramus and Thisbe, two youths, the fairest and handsomest of their sex, who grew up together in Babylon and grew into love. This story is loosely based on theirs, though it has been moved ahead in time and placed it in Greece. It is the story of Agapios and Psykhe._

_**Athens, 444 BCE**_

_The golden age of Athens, under the rule of Pericles, the first citizen of Athens._

Two miles from her house she'd walked, her eyes on the lookout, hoping she was not late. It was a favorite spot of hers, one she'd sneak away from the house to go to often. A tree, that overlooked the street, sat short enough to climb on and tall and full enough to hide her. Mischievous and unmaidenly, she swung herself up into the tree, holding onto her chiton as she climbed. She perched herself onto a branch and looked out, waiting to watch as he traveled the familiar route back from the gymnasia.

Every rider that came into sight had her leaning forward. Finally she saw him, riding in her direction, his curly golden locks, flowing and blowing back from the speed of the horse. He was a master on that horse, graceful and commanding, controlling it as though it was an extension of him. It was a splendid sight to look upon, his chest peeking out of his chiton, glistening with sweat, his muscles rippled in control of the horse. When had all those muscles appeared? When had that skinny boy become this god-like figure? His build had been growing closer and closer to perfection each day. It was suddenly very obvious that the figure she was staring at was no longer a boy, but very much a man.

It was hard to reconcile this man with the boy she'd known her entire life. This was the same boy who'd grown up with her, lived next door, played with her, caught butterflies with her and took her sailing when she managed to sneak away from her nurse. He was the one who taught her what his tutors had taught him and spoke with her as an equal rather than merely as a girl, treating their discussions and her input with importance. He was the only one outside of her household to call her by her birth name. Their shared history was that of the closest of friendships.

Lately though, she'd begun to get a funny feeling in her stomach and her heart when she saw him. She'd taken to spying on her best friend, wondering what he looked like as he exercised in the gymnasia, naked, stretching and performing gymnastics, his muscles expanding and contracting…And she had to stop thinking of it, stop picturing her childhood friend that way, performing athletic maneuvers with the body of a god… She shook her head, wondering how to rid herself of those images. It was so difficult though. With every appearance, she'd feel knots twisting up her stomach and an ache, pleasant but unexpected, appear between her legs. When his eyes were on her, they were filled with a powerful intensity and they took on a different hue, changing from the color of the sea at peace and darkening to the color of the sea during a storm. It felt like a storm. He'd look at her and she'd lose the ability to think and to breathe. When he was around, she ached with longing, and when he wasn't, she still ached with longing, but that longing was accompanied by a feeling of complete emptiness.

His horse came to a stop below hers and she watched as a smile tugged at his lips. Knowing she'd been caught, she blushed and listened as he called to his companions to go on without him. His eyes caught hers, looking up at her with a boyish grin. "Would you look at the fruit this tree bares? What kind of a tree is this that grows such wonders? Tell me and I'll plant one hundred saplings."

She blushed again and then frowned. "You are so very amusing, Agapios."

He grinned again with the same boyish upturning of his mouth and she was caught between wanting to smack the grin and wanting to kiss it.

"What are you doing up there, Psykhe?"

Psykhe shrugged, not wanting to reveal how she'd snuck away from her nurse and climbed the tree to spy on him…admire him…dream of him."

"You wouldn't have been waiting for me, would you?"

His voice was playful, yet low and it held the tone of one confiding. She blushed a third time, hating that she couldn't stop, but loving the effect he'd been having on her. She glared at him. "No, Agapios, I would not concern myself with you. I merely felt like climbing a tree."

Agapios smirked. "And what would your father think, all conservative and proud and aristocratic, of his daughter playing in a tree?"

Her father would be enraged by the idea. He'd punish her for leaving the courtyard and sneaking away from her nurse, he'd scold her and tell her how a girl should be quiet and reserved and maidenly. Still, she would not concede to Agapios's all-knowing look. "He would be glad his child is having so much fun."

"But you are no longer a child…"

His tone was low again, nearly whispering. His blue eyes had transformed, darkening before her and gaining in that intensity that was so new to her and that left her breathless. She swallowed.

"Well, do you want a ride home, or would you rather walk?" His voice had cleared up and the look in his eyes was gone. It was almost as though the moment hadn't existed and they were back to being childhood friends. But, they weren't all the way back. She was still thinking of him in a way a friend should not.

His arm was extended and she stared at it, thinking how delightful and delightfully scandalous it would be to ride with him, bodies pressed together. She swung down onto the bottom branch and grasped his hand. Her sandaled foot stepped off of the branch and onto his knee as he balanced her and helped her to sit astride the horse in front of him, the skin of her bare shoulder lightly resting against his chest.

His hand was soft and still grasping hers as though it was reluctant to let go. His thumb brushed lightly across her palm and she closed her eyes, letting herself enjoy the feeling. Her eyes opened again, starting into his and finding that his darkened gaze had returned. Her free hand slowly made its way up, touching his forearm. Agapios smiled, releasing her hand to wrap his arm around her body and hold her close to him. Psykhe was sure she was imagining it, but his fingers kept tugging gently on her side, pulling her closer and closer as he led his horse on a walk through Athens.

*****

He rode her to within yards of their houses, dropping her off on the corner of the street, knowing neither of their parents would be pleased to see them riding together like so. Although Psykhe chose not to be aware of it, she was growing into womanhood, blossoming and transforming into a beautiful lady, the most beautiful in all of Athens. Agapios found her so beautiful, he was sure that even Helen's legendary beauty would find it difficult to compete. He knew men were after her hand, wanting to marry such a rare golden beauty. They had been for nearly two years, but she'd resisted, and happily her father announced he wouldn't allow anybody to court Psykhe until she was sixteen.

The ride home offered him the chance to feel her figure beneath the chiton draping her body. He'd often thought of her, thought of revealing the maiden beneath the robes and showing her the extent of his love, but she was not ready for it. She was not ready to admit she'd entered womanhood and she likely never saw him as a man, only the friend she'd grown up with. There were times he'd nearly convinced himself she might see him as a man, times he'd caught her staring, but when he'd pry into it, she respond with biting words and comments, forcing him to respond in turn with lightness. He knew, perhaps, her words were chosen to hide what she was feeling, using them as a sword because she was not yet ready to reveal herself to him. It was that hope that kept him prying gently, feeling out her moods and her responses and waiting.

Psykhe seemed reluctant to dismount and he was reluctant to let her. Neither said a word as they sat upon the horse, bodies close, touching in places. Should he break the silence and let her dismount, he knew he'd have to return to reality, a reality where he was preparing to serve in Pericles's Cavalry, as all men of his class did and a reality where he was forever being courted by the older men of his class, wanting to take him as a lover and show him the beauty and perfection of the Greek physique and the spiritual wholeness of loving another man. He admired that physique and knew that he possessed a figure already much admired and sought after, as sought after as Psykhe's hand. He was aware that many men would love to feel and experience an intimate love with his body, but there was only one perfect, romantic ideal he sought, one body he wanted to know intimately, and that one was hidden beneath maidenly robes.

She was so near. He breathed in the scent of the golden braids woven around her head. Her scent was intoxicating. Even through the soft linen, her body felt so perfect beneath his hand. Mounted on the horse and not moving left him time to think about their proximity and he felt himself stir, knowing that as she was tucked against him, she could feel it too. He blushed and dismounted quickly, helping her down and holding her hand in his. "You can walk the rest of the way?"

"You aren't going all the way home?"

"No, I am, but it is probably better we didn't arrive together."

Her eyes were searching his. "Why?" she asked softly.

He stared at her, still grasping her hand. He began to play with her fingers. "Because your father would not approve."

"What is there to approve of? One friend, a lifelong one at that, giving a ride to another?"

She was baiting him and he knew it. She knew her father would not at all approve. What's more, he knew she'd snuck away. Her father would never have let her leave the courtyard. Perhaps she was ready. He spoke softly. "One young man finding an excuse to be as close to his daughter as possible."

Her eyes widened and she pulled her hand from his grasp. He couldn't read face as she stared at him blankly. The non verbal cue to lighten the conversation was very much as powerful as the verbal cues had been. He spoke quickly. "Besides, all the neighboring men would be jealous."

That got a raise of an eyebrow. "Of who?"

"Both of us, naturally. The younger men who want to know romantic love with me will be jealous of you and the older ones who want to marry and take you as a wife would be jealous of me."

"I'm too young to marry."

"You're older than many who have already married."

"Yes, but my father has decided that I will not marry until I am sixteen."

"And that is fast approaching. Soon men will be competing for your hand and once your father approves of one, he'll marry you off."

"I won't do it."

Agapios smiled, thinking of the pair they made. Psyche was outgoing, outspoken and independent, not allowing anyone to see the maidenly virtues expected of a woman, although she was in possession of many of them and he, he was quiet and thoughtful, lacking the outgoing personalities of his male acquaintances. They were both unique and free spirited and he loved it about her. He wondered how many other men would love that free spirit or how many would find her troublesome. How many would see in her the qualities that would make her a favorite of the goddess Athene? No man could know her as he did, love her and her nature as he did. Her body would attract them, but how many would love her mind? Very few he decided, hoping her unmaidenly qualities would dissuade suitors from her. No person could love her as totally as he did, mind, body, spirit. It was as though Aphrodite had created her just for him. He stepped towards her, lowering his voice. "And if that man loved you and you thought you could love him?"

He watched her flush and look away, an action betraying the maiden beneath. She did not reply. He yearned to lean in and kiss her, coerce from her lips her words or feelings, or anything that would reveal her to him. He stepped back. "Come for a sail tomorrow. I'll take you up the coast."

"Alright."

"We'll meet in my courtyard?"

"As soon as I can get away."

"Until tomorrow, Psykhe." He spoke the words softly, caressing her name as it left his lips. Her response was whispered in return, so quiet he could vaguely make out the words as he mounted his horse and rode the remaining distance home.


	3. The Greek, II

**The Greek, II**

Psyche couldn't sleep. She tossed around on her bed, thinking of the way his eyes had looked at her, the way his voice had lowered as he spoke to her. When her father had scolded her for sneaking out and traipsing through Athens, telling her women should not be out where they could tempt and be tempted by the opposite sex, but remain in seclusion in the home, she could only think of Agapios's lips, alternating between boyish and manly, whispering words in low tones and, she hoped she hadn't imagined, layering those words with hidden meanings. She had completely fallen for him, not as two people who had grown up together and naturally grew into love, but as something more.

She spent the night breathless with anticipation, unable to wait for the next day when it would be only her with him and his boat and the sea, sailing, talking and existing in their own quiet little world, where they were free to do as they pleased. Psykhe closed her eyes, imagining his lips on her, soft and sensual. She imagined his touch, his fingers trailing lightly over her body, exploring her as her own hands explored him, treading over his athletic physique. She dreamt of kissing his chest, the perfection of his muscles there, and of him placing kisses across her stomach, the place the warmth began before spreading over the rest of her body.

The morning came and her anticipation was at its height. Her meeting with Agapios that day seemed different than all the times before, where they met as children and as youths, sitting and playing and talking, still in complete possession of their innocence. Slowly, that innocence had been transitioning into awareness of each other, leading to these all-consuming thoughts of him and creating moments of awkwardness between them. Now, they'd seemed to take one more large leap away from their youthful innocence. They were no longer children, but man and woman, meeting and going off alone.

She fidgeted all morning, pacing from room to room and waiting for her father to leave. Minutes after he was gone, she snuck past the room her mother was in and stealthily made her way across the courtyard to Agapios's. She met his father by the door. Agapios's father smiled at her, a knowing, pleased smile that sent her blushing and shyly lowering her face before he turned back to the servant he'd been talking to, one that had been with the family for years, shaking the servant's hand. She loved Agapios's father, so kind and indulgent and sharing Agapios's pensive manner. He and the servant let her pass and she sprinted across the yard, the hem of her chiton in her hands, holding it up while she ran. She stopped suddenly, her breath catching in her throat as she spotted him standing beneath a tree, his back to her. He turned, as if sensing her presence, gazing at her, the dark expression visible on his face. She tensed, watching him move towards her, slowly. She felt his breath in her ear as he leaned in, his wonderful body in her space and her body gravitating towards his. "I'd begun to think you weren't coming."

She took a deep breath, stepping back so that she could gather her thoughts. His proximity to her was daunting. "My father only just left. Your father was shaking hands with Nico when I arrived."

"Yes, Nico is leaving to serve as an oarsman. He is being granted his freedom."

"Oh. Will you miss him?"

He looked at her, his head cocked. "Will I miss him? Why should I miss him? He'll be free, Psykhe."

"He's been with your family your entire life. He was like an older brother to you, watching over you…us, always."

"Yes, he and his family have served my family faithfully. He was a brother and a friend, but he's off to serve the Polis and he gets to be a free man. I am happy for him; I am proud of him. I am glad he's away and about to begin traveling his own path. Come, let us go."

She followed him to his horse, taking his hand as he helped her mount, nestling against him as they rode towards the sea. They reached the shore and he helped her down, holding onto her waist. When her feet touched the ground, he still hadn't let her do. Her face was against his chest and she breathed in his scent, closing her eyes and enjoying the warmth of his fingers on her hips and the feel of his muscular arms brushing against her sides. Her hands found his elbows, cupping them, her forearms resting on his. She lifted her face, seeing the stormy look in his eyes. Her heart stopped and her breath caught and she felt him pull her in a little closer. Agapios's horse used that moment to let out a snort and Agapios stepped back, releasing her. She deflated, but tried not to let her disappointment show.

"Come on."

Psykhe followed him to the small boat, one she'd watched him build with his father and had also lent a hand in building. They'd sailed the boat many times before, playing the Greek heroes of the Trojan War, he always Odysseus, and she pretending to be a visible Athene, guiding Odysseus on his travels. Once they'd outgrown the game, he'd used the time sailing to point things out to her and teach her how to man the boat. She took the hand he offered, using him as balance as she stepped on board. Agapios followed, pushing the boat off and rowing away from the shore. "Are you going to help, or just watch me?"

She thought of just watching him, viewing him as he extended his arms and pulled on the jib rope to raise the sail, but he was looking at her with his head cocked, completely unaware of her thoughts, waiting for an answer. She took the sail from him and began fastening it rope running up the mast, feeling his fingers on hers as he helped her. They hoisted the sail and she gazed up as it pillowed in the breeze, propelling the boat forward. The sea that morning was a deep blue, matching her companion's eyes. She stared into it, losing herself in the serene beauty.

"It's breathtaking, isn't it?"

His words were soft and spoken directly into her ear. His breath was on the back of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. He was so close, the heat of his body on her back. She suddenly felt very nervous and stood absolutely still, fearing any movement might break the moment. "It's wonderful," she whispered, closing her eyes.

"Poseidon is in a pleasant mood today. It would be the perfect day to sail away."

She turned, bumping against his chest, finding that he'd unfastened the top of his tunic and was wearing it as a skirt, leaving his chest bare. He was staring at her, his gaze full of longing. His words ran through her head. _The perfect day to sail away._ Sail away…alone…she and him together. He broke the gaze and nodded his head toward the shore, disrupting her thoughts. On the shore, a large boat was preparing to depart. Rows and rows of oarsmen were moving to the galley. "I wonder if it's Nico's boat. If we wave, he might see us."

The earlier moment was completely lost and she wondered if his words about sailing away had been directed at the large vessel. She stepped back, seating herself. "Yes," she choked on the word, "let's wave." Psykhe watched Agapios wave, adding her own sincere but less enthusiastic wave as well. Agapios sat down next to her, taking the hand tiller in his fist. She caught him stealing glances at the ship. "Do you wish you were on that boat, or is that look of yours because you _are_ going to miss him?"

She watched as he shook his head and edged closer to her until their thighs were touching. "Neither. I'll be joining the Cavalry soon enough and it is his time to go. It is a part of life. People separate, go their own ways and are better for it."

She hated the thought, hated it, knowing soon their childhood world would shatter and Agapios would let himself be taken as a lover or leave with the Cavalry, fighting abroad and then returning to marry a much younger woman. It was torment, but she nodded anyways.

"I'd miss you, though," he spoke softly, twining his fingers with hers. "If I were to part from you, I'd miss you terribly."

Her heart fluttered. She looked down at her lap, their hands entwined on top. She whispered her response, barely able to get out the words. "Then don't ever part."

"Psykhe…"

She looked up at him. His thumb was running over the back of her hand and he was staring at it. The boat had gone idle from inattention, the sail flopping back and forth, but not catching any wind. He still hadn't spoken anything more than her name and the silence felt as though it was killing her. She was terribly confused. She broke the silence. "The boat…"

Agapios's head popped up and she watched the blush redden his cheeks. "Oh." He pulled on the rope to move the boom, tacking the small boat. The sail picked up the wind and the boat began to move again. They sailed up the rocky coastline as he spoke to her of Homer, once again reciting that epic poem of Odysseus's troublesome voyage to return home. She listened, loving both the story and his recitation of it.

"Do you think he ever took Penelope out? Before he sailed off to fight the war?" she asked, thinking that if they played their old childhood game now, she'd choose to be Odysseus's wife, even over her favorite goddess.

"Perhaps. Perhaps he took her around Ithaca, just the two of them, giving her a tour of the shoreline of his island."

"It would be something to see, the place where Penelope waited for him for all those years."

"Someday I'll take you there." The words were so quiet she'd barely heard them spoken. She turned to him, but he was staring forward and his expression was unreadable.

"We should get back."

She nodded and watched as he maneuvered the boat around. He continued to talk, of inconsequential things, filling the silence that had begun to pervade the boat. She half listened, her mind on sailing away with him to Ithaca and further, inhabiting one of Greece's rocky islands themselves and hiding away together for all of eternity. All too soon, they were back, the walls flanking the passage to Athens in front of them. Agapios eased the boat towards the shore, anchoring it just off the shoreline. He lifted her from the boat and placed her gently onto the sand, before pulling the boat right up onto the shore.

She watched him refasten his tunic properly, covering his chest. He helped her onto his horse, climbing on behind her and they rode back to the city and to his home. Once they'd arrived, he helped her down, his hands lingering on her hips again. Taking his horse's reigns in her hands, she walked with him towards the stables. Inside the stables, they stood next to the horse's stall, her hand running smoothly over the horse's mane.

"What are your plans for tomorrow?"

She shrugged. "Why?"

"Come over. I'm going to the gymnasia in the morning, but come in the afternoon. I'll recite to you from Archilochus and tell you what this new man, Socrates, has been saying."

"Will you teach me more of biology?"

He grinned, his mouth boyish and his eyes dancing. "If you'd like. Does this mean you'll be coming over?"

"Yes," she breathed out, a warm feeling rising from her belly to her cheeks. She stared at him, watching his eyes sparkle and then darken. He stepped towards her, pinning her body to the gate. She stopped breathing; all the breath had left her body. Her hand dropped from the horse's mane. His hand caught hers and he stepped even closer. She swallowed, her wide eyes watching his lips hover over hers. She ached with anticipation and with yearning. He was leaning in closer, their bodies nearly touching. She let him press her into the gate, waiting. His hand dropped hers and slowly moved over her shoulder, past her shoulder, onto the halo of braided golden hair. Her eyes were still locked onto his as she felt his fingertips comb through the hair above the braids. His hand retreated, holding a strand of hay in it, his eyes once again dancing. He stepped back and she nearly collapsed with disappointment. They'd been so, so close and she'd never wanted anything more than for him to press his lips to hers. She forced a half smile. "Thank you."

"Yeah. So, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes…yes, I'll be here."

He turned and left. It took a moment before she felt she could walk. When she did, she slowly crossed his yard and snuck back to her place.


	4. The Greek, III

**The Greek, III**

The sweat was sticking to his body as he washed off. The morning's exercise had left him fatigued but feeling good. As he toweled off, he was approached by Melieus, a man twelve years his senior and already a powerful and well respected member of the elite.

"Agapios, how do you fare?"

"I am well, Melieus, and you?"

"I fare very well. I wondered if you'd care to spend the afternoon at my house. There is something I'd like to discuss."

"I am sorry Melieus, but I have made plans for this afternoon."

"Tomorrow then?" Melieus spoke, stepping closer. Melieus's hand fell to his bicep, grasping it in a firm grip and squeezing it. Agapios eyed the hand and stepped away, knowing what Melieus was offering and knowing he'd be thought a fool to refuse the offer. Melieus was a much admired man, intelligent, strong, handsome, a man with an excellent build, but Agapios could only think of Psykhe and how close they'd been the previous afternoon. He'd been ready to kiss her, wanting to kiss her and she'd been waiting. He'd only had to lower his mouth inches to hers and their lips would have been touching. He'd wanted to taste her so badly, to feel her soft lips pressed to his, her body in his arms. The only thing that had stopped him was the maddening recollection that she had to get home. Had he let himself kiss her, he wouldn't have been able to let her go.

"I am sorry Melieus, but I cannot."

"But you are not with anyone? No man has…?"

"No, but it is not something that I want."

Melieus took the towel from his hands and began to dry off Agapios's body. Melieus's hands glided over his naked figure. "Agapios, the connection between men is a powerful one. Eros has struck me with a strong desire for you. He has fixed me with a great love for both your body and your mind. Sex, the act of intimacy between two men, between two persons who both possess superior intelligence and strength, who are close to physical perfection, masculine, god-like, is the most perfect form of intimacy there is. Only a man should lead you into manhood. A woman, though fragile, beautiful and satisfying, is weak, inferior in intelligence and reason and you could never form that same connection with her. Her body is soft and supple, but you will not know the feel of a strength that can overpower you, nor what it is like to hold that power in your hands. Sex between men is a wrestling match. You give and you take and you can let out all of the beast and energy in you in ways you cannot with a woman. It can also be gentle and full of worship, for there is no physique to be as admired as the male physique. We can rise above and transcend the earthly necessities of mating to create life and enjoy the bodies the gods have given us, knowing each other's bodies as the gods know them. To make love to someone equal to you in power and in strength is a wondrous thing. I admire you, your intelligence, your physique…your youth. We can connect on every level, intellectual, spiritual, physical. It is the greatest act of intimacy, eternal, the apex of perfection. It is the purest form of love."

No, he thought, it wasn't. Though Eros was the god of man love, he knew Eros had not struck him in the same way. For surely, it was Eros who had sent a woman named Psykhe to him. His love for Psykhe was the purest form of love. It was Psykhe with whom he connected to on every level. Despite being denied much of an education, her intelligence matched his, and more than that, her spirit did. The fates had placed her on earth for him, creating a soul to complete his as the object of his soul was to complete hers. They had given life to her soul only one day after his. Nothing could be more pure and more intimate than to join bodies where the souls were already mated, taking two halves and sealing them into one whole. He took his towel back from Melieus. "Melieus, you and I, we cannot achieve that perfection."

"We are that perfection, Agapios. You have to experience it to know it. You are foolish to deny yourself of it and unkind to deny me of it. Soon, very soon, you will be off with the Cavalry and I'll be taking a wife and the days of knowing perfect intimacy will have ended."

"You could find that intimacy with a woman, with the right woman. Have you given any thought to who you'd marry?"

"Onassis's daughter, that blonde goddess, your neighbor. She is a very beautiful girl and she comes from a very good family. Her father will soon be consenting to her marriage."

His heart stopped and then began to beat furiously. The man who was asking him to be a lover was interested in marrying the woman he loved. His heart was pounding and he felt as though it was going to break right through his breast. Onassis would surely agree to the match. Melieus was the ideal suitor, well respected, powerful, rich, and conservative like Psykhe's father…

"But we'll never connect on that intimate level."

The pounding in his heart subsided as he felt an overwhelming relief spread through his chest. There would still be time to show Psykhe his love, court her and marry her himself. Melieus wanted one last perfect affair with a boy before marrying. "No, Melieus, I know her very well, and I don't think you'll achieve that connection. I'm also not sure she'd make a good wife for you. She is wild and independent, and you will spend far too much time attempting to tame her." The words came out easy. They were truthful, for she would be troublesome for any man who thought she would need taming and, in regards to that perfect, intimate connection, he felt Psykhe could only reach that connection with him. "But, you will not find that connection with me either. My mind is on another and always will be. There are many boys who would find it an honor and a privilege to explore that connection with you."

"I cannot persuade you?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Alright, I respect that. I am very sorry about it though. There is not a young man around equal to you."

"Apart from my build and my hair color, I do not possess those attributes admired in a man. I am not outgoing like the other men."

"You possess those attributes inside of you, strength of character, strength of mind, that ability to lead and to assert yourself when necessary, just as you have done now."

"I thank you for the compliments."

"Is the flattery working?"

Agapios laughed. "No, you'll still have to find yourself another young man."

Melieus nodded, smiling. He turned away and Agapios watched as he looked back over his shoulder. "Agapios, I want you to know, what I said was not an attempt to flatter, but the truth. Know the strength of the man you are inside and carry that knowledge with you. It will remain with you always. Trust in it."

Melieus's words stayed with him. He put on his chiton and rode home, thinking of his perfect love for Psykhe. He trusted in that love and when he reached his home, where she would be waiting, he would reveal it.

*****

He reached his place, quickly dismounting from his horse and walking it to the stable. Servants greeted him as he passed, but he only offered up short nods in reply. His pace quickened as he walked to the back of the courtyard, past the garden and into the trees. His steps stopped momentarily upon seeing her seated in the shade of the large oak tree, twirling a blade of grass between her thumb and index finger. Her head was tilted down, staring at the blade of grass in a way that betrayed her feminine beauty. His breath caught in his throat. He approached slowly, finding that breath harder to catch than after his most vigorous exercises that morning. He stopped in front of her, his form casting a shadow over her. Her face lifted, blue-grey eyes wide and filled with a beautiful wonder. She stared up at him. He watched her stand, his eyes fixed on her graceful movement. Her hand landed on his arm as she rose and she smiled. He stared down at her, watching her eyes turn and her teeth bite down on her lower lip before releasing it. She was waiting on him, just as she'd done the day before. Her eyes were dark with both desire and fear. He stood over her, stepping closer and gazing at the way her head tilted further back to keep contact with his eyes. His hands grasped her wrists, his thumb pressing against her pulse point and finding her heart beating as rapidly as his. _"When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent, and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum, and a wet sweat bathes me, and a trembling seizes me all over…"_ His head swooped down quickly, kissing her briefly and then backing away, startled by what he'd done. "Psykhe, I…"

He stared at her and she advanced on him, gripping his arms and lifting herself onto her toes to kiss him. She smiled afterwards. "That wasn't Archilochus."

"Sappho," he whispered, kissing her again. Her lips were so soft, her taste was so sweet and his hands fell to her hips to hold her to him. They stood beneath the oak tree, his face tilted down, hers tilted up, exchanging light kisses, lips advancing and retreating, pecking, tasting and caressing. He didn't move to deepen the kiss, enjoying the slow way he was learning her taste, loving the feel of her lips beneath his and the caress of her fingers on his biceps. They kissed and kissed and his heart swelled, knowing he was experiencing the purest form of love. When they broke apart, he gazed down at her, watching her stare back up at him. His hands lifted from her slim waist to cup her face. He felt her lips turn to place the softest of kisses on the pad of his thumb and his heart nearly stopped from the wonder of it. He released her face and slid his palm to the back of her neck, drawing her head to his chest. He held her tightly against him, one hand cradling the back of her head and the other on her back, her arms around his waist. He felt her smile against his chest. "I thought you were going to recite to me from Archilochus."

He released her, stepping back and gazing into her eyes.

"_Take the joy and bear the sorrow,  
looking past your hopes and fears:  
learn to recognize the measure  
dance that orders all our years"_

She smiled and he drew her closer again. "Or perhaps you liked Sappho better. _Gracious your form and your eyes as honey: desire is poured upon your lovely face. Aphrodite has honored you exceedingly…"_

He felt her lips kiss his chin and then watched as she looked in the direction of her yard. When her eyes turned back to his, he could see the regret in them. "You have to go, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I need more time with you."

"You took so long in getting here."

"I was delayed. Can you stay a little longer?"

She shook her head. "My father will be home soon."

"Meet me tomorrow."

"Where?"

"Here."

"Okay." She turned from him and he caught her wrist in his hand. He stared at her and she stared back before she turned and ran towards her yard. He watched, collapsing to the grass and looking on as she glanced over her shoulder and then disappeared into her yard.


	5. The Greek, IV

**The Greek, IV**

The last vestiges of her childhood had left her the moment her lips had met his. No longer a child, she was a woman, one who'd come to life in his arms. She could have spent forever, just standing there and kissing him, letting him caress her lips softly. He was all she could think about, his lips soft and perfect, placing sweet perfect kisses on hers, his hands, warm, even through the linen of her chiton, cradling her to him, his muscles large and hard beneath her fingertips, twitching with each kiss, his chest, solid against her cheek when he held her. She yearned to feel more of him, kiss his perfectly formed chest where her cheek had rested, feel his hands running along her skin. She thought of their bodies entwined and she nearly cried out, longing for her visions to turn to reality.

The following day, in that same secluded part of the yard they'd exchanged kisses the afternoon before, he was waiting for her. They began to kiss again, each caress of their lips longer than the last. He took her bottom lip between his own and a sharp pang of desire shot through her. She moaned, deepening the kiss and taking his lip between hers in response. His tongue moved over her lip and she opened her mouth to him, feeling his tongue sweep inside her mouth for the first time. She gasped as their tongues tangled and their kisses grew deeper.

His hands began to move on her, over her hips and up and down her back. Her palms had started out flat on his chest, but as his hands moved, she let her own wander. Her fingers played across the linen on his chest, feeling the muscle beneath the thin material. Her hands moved behind his neck, pulling his head down as she boldly swept her tongue into his mouth. His hands moved to her lower back, pulling her closer to him and she could feel his desire on her stomach. He maneuvered her until her back was against the oak tree. His arms were on either side of her, holding her between them. He was pressed so close, leaning over her and kissing her deeply, overwhelming her senses.

It was both a dance and a duel. Kisses broke only for air before beginning again and deepening on each new start. When they were completely breathless, she pulled back, sliding down the trunk of the tree to sit on the grass, finding her legs could not support her standing any longer. He sat down next to her, breathing in, but still giving her soft pecks. "_How love the limb-loosener sweeps me away,_" he quoted Sappho softly, taking her hands in his momentarily before placing them on him, giving her fingers permission to explore. She took her time, gliding over each muscle, feeling each curve. Her hands moved to his thighs and she felt him suck in a breath. She took one of his hands in hers and guided it to her breast, allowing him to touch it for the first time. His hand was still upon it, cupping it. She waited, watching the look of wonder and adoration in his eyes. Finally he his hand moved over the breast, running lightly over it. His legs opened and she shifted, sitting in between them, facing him as they sat and touched and exchanged more soft kisses.

*****

"Who is Socrates?" she asked him the next time they met. They'd been exchanging kisses for some time and had broken away to let their breathing return to normal. She was leaning up against his shoulder, her eyes closed. "You were going to tell me earlier."

Agapios cradled her hand in his. He was playing with each of her fingers, softly running his over the length of them. His answer was almost abscent. "He is a very young teacher-philosopher and I think he could turn out to be one of the great thinkers of our time."

"I've heard my father speak of him. My father says that Socrates, despite his youth, is very dangerous."

He chuckled, his chest vibrating beneath her. "His ideas are very different. I can imagine how your father must think of some of them."

"What are his ideas?"

"He speaks of man's ignorance. He says that all virtue is knowledge. Truth comes from our knowledge of our ignorance."

"What do you think?" she asked, opening her eyes and facing him, draping her chiton over her legs as she readjusted her position.

"I think some of his ideas are very valid. Knowing and trying to understand all that we don't know is far more powerful than all of the knowledge contained within us. How can we know the truth if we don't search for it in the things that are a mystery to us?" He let his legs extend out, crossing one over the other as he stretched his muscles and leaned back against the tree.

"Alright, so how is that dangerous?"

He released her hand and crossed his arms behind his head, staring up into the sky. "Because man doesn't want to think of himself as ignorant, especially the elite. We respect the man who is decisive and sure of himself. Most men aren't motivated by a quest for truth. Men want power and success, some are more concerned with becoming free, and all men want a say in society."

"And because of man's ignorance he shouldn't have a say?"

"That's a point you could argue from his teachings. He's not advocating rebellion, but he is criticizing the demokratia in a way. Socrates would rather the city be ruled by a group of wise, benevolent philosophers than be a demokratia giving a voice to the largely uneducated, uninformed, unknowledgeable citizen population."

Psykhe shifted again, sitting completely upright. He glanced at her, noticing her concentrated look and the distaste cross her features. He chuckled, waiting to hear what she was about to say. He was not disappointed. Her voice rose. "Alright, but just because someone is uneducated does not mean they are totally ignorant. Isn't the point of the demokratia to let the citizens voice the issues that affect them. If the polis was to deny the uneducated of a voice, how would the rulers, wise philosophers that they may be, understand those issues? What truth is there in being ignorant of a large part of the population? It's not as if the major decisions are being made by these uniformed men. They're made by Pericles and the council, mostly educated elite, and the voice of all the citizens is just to guide them."

He smiled at her. "You have the same misgivings as I do, though Socrates isn't really advocating a change in how things are run. It's a dream of his, believing that if society was run by the wisest of men, we'd live in the most virtuous of societies. But, I believe he's loyal to the polis and would do nothing to act against it. He's just letting us know all that we don't know. I think we should be motivated by a quest for the truth and by a quest for knowledge, but that quest should include the entire population. I value my education and the knowledge I contain, and I consider myself a better man because of it, but the uneducated population still has much to offer, if nothing more than to show us their needs. Their experiences are unique and we should seek the truth in them. Besides, most men have common sense and can exercise it when involved in government. Pericles was right to give a voice to the demos."

"You are a good man, Agapios, able to look at the issue from all sides."

He smiled, taking her hand again. "That is the point, isn't it? Socrates underestimates the uneducated, but I do agree with his love of wisdom and his ideas on friendship and the sense of true community. And I am all for the pursuit of truth."

"And have you been pursuing any truths?" she asked softly.

"Constantly," he answered, drawing his legs up and shifting towards her. He stared into her eyes, lowering his voice. "All those searches have led me here. The one truth I know is you."


	6. The Greek, V

**The Greek, V**

Every waking thought she had was of him, his soft kisses, the look in his eyes as he touched one of her breasts. They had been meeting daily, exchanging sweet, wonderful kisses. He'd taken her sailing again, kissing her briefly as they looked out upon the sea, holding his hand over hers on the hand tiller, directing the boat together. Other days they just sat on the grass in the far reaches of his courtyard, exchanging more kisses and resting silently against each other. At night, she dreamt of him, letting her fantasies play out in her dreams: their bodies entangled, her thin naked self wrapped up in his embrace, his arms around her, holding her to his broad chest.

The grove in the back of his courtyard was quiet. She walked through the yard, hearing none of the servants about. It was possible that Agapios was not back from the gymnasia yet. She prepared herself to wait, walking further into the grove to find a place to meet him. She was looking down, bending to pick up a leaf and twirling it in her fingers. When she looked up, he was there. She stopped in her tracks. The sight before her stole her breath. He was lying on the grass, his hands beneath his head, looking up at the sky above, wearing only a small piece of linen wrapped around his waist, fashioned into a make-shift skirt and tied in a knot at the side. The sweat of his bare chest glistened in the sunlight. She moved slowly, lying down next to him. Without looking at her, he removed one of his hands from behind his head, took her hand and clasped it in his. She spoke nothing for moments, and then turned her face to his. "It's so quiet here today."

"My father is gone to council."

"Yes, mine has as well."

"My mother is inside and I have asked all of the servants to stay in the front of the courtyard, or to stay indoors."

"You have?" She tensed, feeling hope and fear wash over her at the same time.

She felt him turn on his side. He fingered the linen of her robes. "Psykhe, we are nearly sixteen. Soon I will be joining the Cavalry, with the other men of our class, to serve the Polis."

The breath left her body. Agapios may have to leave, to fight and while she understood, she only wanted him to stay. She could not live without him and she was not sure she could endure waiting any length of time. She silently prayed to the goddess Athene, asking for Penelope's strength and begging that no force keep him from returning. She turned on her side, facing him. Taking his wrist in her hands, she placed his hand over her heart. His eyes lifted to her, brimming with wonder and with tenderness. When he tilted his head and leaned forward, she did the same. Somewhere in the middle, their lips met, mouths opening to each other and kissing deeply.

His hand curled up so that only the fingertips rested on her heart. Then, his hand moved around her back, untying the sash that held her robes in place. "Is this okay?" he whispered and she nodded, words lodging in her throat. His hands gently pushed away the material in the back. Psykhe sucked in a breath, feeling the light touch of his fingertips upon her bare skin. His hands glided up her spine, continuing to gently push and pull away the material. His fingers moved to her shoulders, resting on the knots there. She was trembling as she waited for him to untie the material. "Is this okay?" he whispered again, meeting her eyes and again she could only nod, watching as he carefully peeled away her clothing.

He rolled her onto her back, his hands gliding over her sides, taking material with them, exposing her body to his gaze. When his hands stilled on her hips, she lifted herself, allowing him to continue down. His thumbs slid over her thighs slowly, tracing a path along her bare skin as he continued to peel away at her clothing. He lifted her feet, pulling the robes the rest of the way. She watched, noticing him still to gaze down at her. She stared back up at him, her face red with her blush, still quivering, feeling vulnerable at being so exposed to him. His hands lifted each foot again, holding her heel and she could feel him slowly peeling off each sandal, one at a time, softly kissing the sole of each foot.

She closed her eyes, letting out soft moans and sighs as he lightly kissed his way up her body, softly whispering verses of Archilochus, picking and choosing each verse carefully. _"__A slender, lovely, graceful girl, Just budding into supple line, And you scare her and make her shy."_

He continued to trail kisses along her skin, breathing more of Archilochus against her skin. _"__It's green to think the holy one's the only. When the shadows go black and quiet, Let us, you and I alone, and the gods, Sort these matters out. Fear nothing: I shall be tame, I shall behave And reach, if I reach, with a civil hand._

Up her legs, _"I shall climb the wall and come to the gate. You'll not say no, Sweetheart, to this? I shall come no farther than the garden grass."_

Over her stomach, her breasts, her forehead and each of her cheeks, still quoting Archilochus.

"_I said no more, but took her hand,  
__Laid her down in a thousand flowers,  
__And put my soft wool cloak around her._

"_I slid my arm under her neck  
__To still the fear in her eyes,  
__For she was trembling like a fawn,_

"_Touched her hot breasts with light fingers,  
__Straddled her neatly and presses  
__Against her fine, hard, bared crotch._

"_I caressed the beauty of all her body  
__And came in a sudden white spurt  
__While I was stroking her hair."_

He'd stopped kissing her body, falling silent above her. She opened her eyes and he was hovering over her, his blond curls falling to her face. He leaned in and kissed her. Her hands came up, working at the knot of his short skirt, removing the small piece of fabric so that he was naked above her.

"Do you want this?" She nodded and glanced down, seeing him take himself in his hand above her. "Are you ready?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she whispered in a voice she didn't recognize.

He pushed into her slowly and she was hit immediately by a short wave of pain, mixed with pleasure. She gasped and let out a small whimper. His hands immediately cupped her face. "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head, tilting it back and lifting her face to kiss him. Despite the pain, she felt better with him inside her than she'd ever felt before. Agapios returned the kiss, deepening it as he slowly pulled out of her. She kissed him hard when he moved back into her and each time after that until the pain ebbed away, reassuring him each time he stopped to ask if she was okay.

He moved slowly, his eyes locked onto hers, his curls brushing over her forehead, his hands gliding over her sides and one continuing lower. She moaned and began to move with him, running her hands over his back. She leaned up, breaking off from their stare to kiss his chest, the salty taste of sweat lingering on her lips.

*****

He'd imagined her figure many times, wondering at the beauty hidden beneath the soft folds of her robes. Psykhe's face and hands and arms and shoulders had always been so delicate, giving him clues to how the rest of her body would look. The rest of her body was just as delicate, and even more graceful and feminine than he'd imagined. Her maidenly robes had hidden the softness of her body from him and being able to reveal that softness, that delicacy, that stunning beauty beneath, had been a gift. He'd kissed and touched every curve, every line of her quivering body, committing her thin, perfect form to memory.

Agapios was aware that his initial thrust into her had caused her some pain and he moved slowly, trying to be as gentle as possible. She felt so good around him, sending him at once to the heavens with bliss passing over him as he moved within her, letting her kiss him hard to release her pain. When she began to move with him, he let himself sink further and further into her. He held her eyes the entire time, at first noticing the moisture of her tears from each instant of pain, and later, when the pain diminished from her eyes, he watched as her lashes fluttered and her eyelids blinked, while keeping her gaze locked on his. His thrusts were followed by soft kisses and more fluttering eyelids, their gaze breaking only for seconds each time their lips met. Afterwards, the stares continued as though they'd never been interrupted.

Their gaze only truly broke when Psykhe lifted her head to kiss his chest. He held himself over her, staring down and holding his breath as she continued to place kisses across his chest. Her mouth lingered and her teeth grazed over his skin. Her tongue snaked out and licked his breast and he let out a hiss, sinking back down into her, his hand moving to her thigh, and burying his face in the crook of her neck. She was a siren, beautiful, desirable, intoxicating, and perfect in his arms. This was not the act of sex between a man and a woman he'd heard spoken of. It was completeness, spiritual wholeness, all of the actions of the fates culminating in the merging of two souls created for each other.

He lifted his face and stared into her eyes, letting a tear escape from the corner of one eye. Psykhe's own eyes welled up and held the same awareness, softness and happiness of his own. This was the purest form of lovemaking, the purest form of love. He dropped his forehead to hers, thrusting into her one last time, exploding within her and crying out with overwhelming pleasure. He collapsed into her chest. Her leg curled around him and he held it there. At the same time, her arms came right around him, holding her to him and he was filled with an all-consuming love. He rolled their bodies onto their sides, fearing the weight of him would crush her delicate frame. The remained entwined, arms wrapped around each other, legs tangled up together, holding onto one another.

He held her in silence, stroking her smooth skin, up and down. He was content to stay like that forever, in the perfect peace they'd created, she in his arms for all eternity. It would have to end, but if he had the choice, they'd recreate the moment and create other perfect moments together. "Psykhe," he finally spoke, mumbling softly into her hair, "when we turn sixteen, not only will I be joining the Cavalry, but you'll be old enough to marry."

He felt her stiffen, no doubt thinking about which man twice her age her father was sure to choose for her. He ran his hand along her back, softly kissing the top of her head. "I want to marry you."

"Do you mean that?"

His hand stopped. Her voice sounded so unsure, as though she felt he was just going to join the Cavalry and disappear from her life. He tightened his arms around her. "Yes, Psykhe, I love you. I've always loved you."

She looked up at him, smiling and eyes sparkling with tears. He felt her shuffle in closer, her bent leg between his, their hips nearly touching. His hand brushed away the tears. "Will you? If your father gives us permission? I know that I'm young, and your father will make us wait until I am eighteen and a citizen of Athens, and you'll be alone when I am called away to serve the Polis…"

"I'll marry you the instant my father says yes, the second you're old enough. I love you."

He held her tightly against him, tears stinging his eyes. "I've been waiting my whole life to marry you."

"We'll likely have to wait even longer."

"Your soul was created for mine. The fates have placed us on earth to be together."

"I know it. I've always known it."

He slid down until their faces me and he kissed her. A breeze blew across the courtyard, sending a shiver across his naked body, and he could feel a slight tremble in Psykhe's body next to his. His hand grasped around the grass beside them until it found Sara's robes. He pulled the robes over them, partially covering their naked, entwined bodies, sheltering them from the slight breeze. His arms moved around her, one beneath her head and one around her waist, his hand resting on the small of her back. He drifted to sleep with her head on his shoulder and her hand over his heart.


	7. The Greek, VI

**The Greek, VI**

They met daily, making love in the grove or in his bed and once on during another afternoon of sailing. It grew more and more pleasurable as her body got used to his inside of her and they learned of what caresses stirred the most desire in each other. They always took their time, touching and tasting each other, laying kisses over one another before he would enter her and slowly make love to her. She loved the way his curls fell into her face and the way he stared into her eyes. She loved the way he touched her as he moved in her, allowing her to guide him to her needs. She loved learning each of his needs and being able to fulfill them. She loved how her explosion of pleasure always triggered his own. And, she loved how, even though he was breathless, he would always hold her afterwards, tangled up in sheets or chitons, or each other, her holding him inside her. He treated her body with such reverence and such love, she felt every bit the beautiful woman he saw in her.

The morning of his birthday, she watched from her window as he left his house and his family and the gifts that were awaiting him, shaking off his mother's hand on his arm as he moved towards her house. When he knocked on her door, she ran down the stairs, catching a brief glimpse of him following her father into a room. From outside the door, she listened in, hearing muffled voices, but clearly understanding all that was being said.

"_Onassis, today I have turned sixteen. Tomorrow, your daughter will follow. I know you have set that age as a time for her to marry. I have come to ask your permission to take your daughter as my wife."_

A long silence followed.

"_You are serious."_

"_Yes, sir, very."_

"_You will not be a citizen until you turn eighteen. You cannot marry her before then."_

"_Yes, I know. I ask that you allow her to wait."_

"_No!" _Her father's voice boomed and she felt her heart stop. She had to brace herself against the door to keep from falling over. Her heart had shattered with her father's emphatic, clear refusal.

"_Onassis, I know I am young and about to serve in the Cavalry, but I am in love with your daughter. I would do anything for her."_

"_You'd make her a widow while fighting for the Polis?"_

"_No…no, nothing could stop me or tempt me away from returning to her. I am an excellent fighter and the Gods will protect me. We are not engaged in any major battles at the present time. I would return to her, alive and as in love with her as ever. We are for each other. I will give her a good life …"_

"_Agapios, nothing you say will convince me. I've heard of your intelligence, your honor and your abilities. I've watched you grow from a boy and have seen myself that there is not a man your age that could rival you at many things. You are young. What would it profit me to marry my daughter to a youth, without any power or connection?"_

"_I will build up my influence and my connections as I age. I come from a good family…"_

"_If it was not for your family, I may have been able to overlook your youth."_

"_My family? I don't understand. Our families have been close acquaintances for years."_

"_Your father is a democrat."_

"_Yes, you've always known that about him. It has not put a burden on your relationship before."_

"_We had no qualms with the democrats before. Besides, underneath your father's so called democratic leanings, I know he is a sophist, one who has only revealed himself recently. He has kept it well hidden and I can only assume you are doing the same."_

"_No…no," _Psykhe could hear Agapios plead, _"You are mistaken. For my father, I cannot speak, only to say that I know in my heart it isn't true. My father is a democrat, yes, but not a sophist. As for myself, I am for the truth and for love, not for ambition. My allegiance lies firmly with Pericles and the demokratia. I will serve Athens faithfully and love your daughter wholly. Please, I beg you, let her decide. Allow her to wait."_

"_You have seduced her behind my back and you ask me to trust you? You hide yourself as well as your father. My daughter will not marry a sophist."_

"_No, please, my love for your daughter is pure. I will prove it to you, if it takes years, I will prove it. You will know where my heart lies, in politics and in love."_

"_Leave my house now!"_

The door opened and Agapios did not look at her, walking away with his head hung low. She chased after him, grasping his hand and he turned to her with devastation in his eyes. He clasped her hand. She felt her father pull her from Agapios's grasp. "No, father," she struggled to break free, "I love him."

Two servants came, pulling Agapios to the door and pushing him through it. She collapsed to her knees, sobbing. "Father, let me marry him. I love him."

"He will leave to serve the Polis and you will forget about him."

"I won't. I'll always love him. Father, if you do not consent, I'll go after him."

"Enough. You will not dishonor this family. You are not to leave this house. Someone will always be watching you. Tomorrow, the slaves will begin construction on a wall between our two courtyards. Only when the wall is built will you be allowed outside, and even then, you'll be confined to the courtyard."

She looked up at her father, her eyes stinging with tears. "You would break our hearts on his birthday and construct a wall between us on mine?"

"Psykhe, it is not your place to question me. You are a woman. You will start acting like one now!"

Her father left her on her knees, crying on the floor. It was her mother who took her up to her room, holding her weeping form in comforting arms. "Psykhe, shed your tears and be done with them. Mourn your loss and be finished with it. You will be okay. You will love again."

She ripped herself from her mother's embrace, standing and facing her mother. "No, I could never love another man. My whole being is connected to him. Father is wrong about him. I know him. We grew up together. I know what he is for. I know that he is a good man, the best man."

"I know, Psykhe." Her mother stood, drawing her back into her mother's arms. "He is an outstanding young man, from a good family, but he is too young to take a wife and these matters rest with your father. In time, the pain will ease and you'll grow to love the man your father chooses for you to marry."

"No, I'll never marry. I will wait for Agapios to prove father wrong. I could not marry a man I do not love, not when I love a man the way I do."

"It is not a choice. We marry the man chosen for us."

She tilted her head back, wiping away her tears, looking at her mother. "Is that why you married father? Did you not love him?"

"Your father won my hand. There was another I favored, but my father chose yours as my husband. I grew to love your father and have tried my best to be an honorable wife."

"You favored another but did not love him, not like I love Agapios. Had you, you wouldn't have been able to grow to love father. I would not make an honorable wife, for what honor would it bring to a man to always be thinking of another? My heart and soul are in Agapios's possession. It is not a love we've grown into, though you and father may think it. It is a love we were born into. Aphrodite has consecrated our love; the fates have decreed it. I know it." She fell onto her bed in tears. "This is not a love that will ever pass. It is eternal."

Her mother sat next to her body, resting a hand on her back. "You know this to be true? In your heart, you know it?"

"Yes."

"Psykhe, tomorrow the slaves will start construction on that wall. It will look flawless, but if you walk along it, travel to the far end of it and search carefully, you will discover a small void, not noticeable to the naked eye, but one that cannot escape a lover's. The fault will only large enough to speak through. If the fates have decreed your love, as you believe, then Agapios will find the fault too."

Psykhe looked up, tear filled eyes wide, staring at her mother. She studied her mother's face before her mother rose and exited, not speaking another word. Her sobs stilled as she thought over her mother's words. As she lay on the bed, a tiny ray of hope seeped through the devastation.

*****

Agapios returned home devastated. His family and friends were about, waiting to celebrate his birthday. He walked by them, head down, not seeing the fine gifts they held out. He passed in silence, brushing by the confused looks of his family members, and wandered into the courtyard, to the oak tree where he and Psykhe kissed and touched and made love. He laid on his side on the grass, curling his arm under his head, resting his other hand on the earth where she once laid.

A shadow fell over the grass where his hand rested. His stare moved from his hand to the figure standing over him. He watched as his father sighed and took a seat against the oak tree, laying a beautiful sword in front of him. "Happy Birthday."

He looked at the sword and ran his finger over the blade. "It is beautiful father. Thank you."

"I have had it designed in mind for you. Inside we have also a new set of armor for you. You will look a brilliant soldier in Pericles's Cavalry."

Agapios said nothing, staring off towards Onassis's courtyard.

"What is it, Agapios? You have turned sixteen. You should be happy."

"How can I be happy on the day I lost everything?"

"What, your youth?"

"My love."

"Ah, Psykhe."

He sat up, staring at his father. "You knew?"

"You do not hide yourself as well as you imagine, Agapios. When you were three, you vowed you'd marry her one day. Now, tell me, has her father consented to another hand for her?"

"No, he has only denied mine."

"You, at sixteen have asked for her hand?"

"And Onassis denied me of it."

His father sighed and lowered down next to him. "You are far too young to marry. You have a life ahead of you, your education, travel, adventure, numerous affairs with golden boys and enchanting women."

"I want no person but her, and I would have two more years to travel and be educated before I married. I asked Onassis to allow her to wait until I was eighteen and a citizen."

"What of your time in the Cavalry?"

"I would continue to serve."

"And what of your family's honor?"

"Would it not bring honor to have such a beautiful and intelligent daughter-in-law?"

"I have loved that girl like my own; you know that Agapios, but perhaps it is better. You are so young, and you'll be away a lot, fighting for Pericles and for Athens. You do not know your feelings will not change, or hers."

"They won't. She is a part of me. She is the best part of me. I will always return to her and she will always honor me."

"Such an honorable and beautiful wife is not always for the best. While you are away, many men, older and more experienced, will try to seduce her. To be in possession of such striking looks, she would receive many tempting offers. Her beauty would rival Helen's."

"And her faithfulness would equal Penelope's. We are for each other. If only her father could see that."

"Onassis is not a far-seeing man. He is a conservative."

"Why is it only now that your politics are separating us? You have always been a democrat and he always a conservative and yet you were friends. The two of you allowed Psykhe and me to grow up together and play together. You held the greatest respect for each other."

"Agapios, things are not good between the conservatives and the democrats right now. The conservatives have been protesting against Pericles and the democrats have been backing him. I have stood and spoken for Pericles."

"And for that, Onassis has called you a sophist."

His father sighed. "Because I am for progress and because I have said we could learn much from the sophists. Not only does their education cover many areas important to society, history, ethics, and so forth, but they also teach men how to communicate. Communication is a very important skill, son, one we should all master. However, to call me a sophist and group me with them, men who care nothing for the truth or the demos, but only for personal ambition and wealth, Onassis is sadly mistaken."

"I know he is, father."

"And you also know that he will not change his mind? He will never consent to a marriage between you and his daughter. I know that it is hard, Agapios, but it is better to forget her, to live your life, experience your adventures and settle down with someone else."

He stood up quickly, turning his back and looking down at his father. "That I will never do. I will wait, forever if I have to, for her father to change his mind."

"Agapios…"

"No father. I will serve Pericles and I will fight abroad if I have to, but I will never take any woman but her."

His father stood up, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Then you will die alone."

"So be it. At least I will die faithful to the one I love."

"My wish is for you to die happy, after many years of living happy."

"That option ceased to exist when Onassis denied me Psykhe's hand."

From behind him, he heard his father sigh again. With the sound of disappearing footsteps, Agapios sat down on the grass again, running his hand, first over the blade of his new sword, then over the grass where memories of he and Psykhe overtook him.


	8. The Greek, VII

**The Greek, VII**

A silence followed him around, pervading his every action. He moved around, melancholy and inconsolable. The morning of Psykhe's birthday, he looked down at the gift he held in his hands, a beautiful scarf, the color of the sky. He ran his hands along it, his thumb over the small butterfly etched in stitching, wondering how her face would have looked when he gave it to her. He'd hoped her father would relent and he could see her and if nothing more, wish her a happy birthday, giving her one last symbol of his love for her. Instead, he stepped outside to see square stones being mounted upon more stones.

Day after day he watched as slaves erected a wall between him and Psykhe. Return trips from the gymnasia were filled with wistful longing as he caught himself glancing into the tree Psykhe used to perch herself in to spy on him and he remembered her gangly limbs hanging from the branches, and later, her delicate form resting against the trunk while her beautiful face peeked through the leaves. Every time he passed the tree and glanced up to see nothing but sunlight shining through, he felt the loss, the reminder of the beautiful, carefree life they'd been living tearing painfully through his heart.

Others around him noticed the change in him. While he was always a quiet boy, the lack of light in his eyes was a distinct change. His father offered quiet sympathy, while his mother continuously scolded him, calling him foolish for wanting to marry so young, telling him that had Psykhe's father not forbidden such a foolish union, she certainly would have. Some men avoided him, while others offered him solace in their arms without knowing what they'd been offering to console. His tutors first tried to draw him out and then stopped trying altogether. Agapios rejected all offers of comfort and of company, shunning every attempt and bringing back the silence that now consumed his life.

Training for the Calvary and working to prove Psykhe's father mistaken absorbed his time. He trained hard, establishing a reputation as a strong fighter, though sullen and aloof. Men followed his lead, yet kept their distance and the harder he trained the more mysterious he became to them. Stories begun to follow as the boys he grew up with, all members of the elite and educated like him, began to create narratives which offered their theories on what force it was driving him.

When he was not occupied by military exercises, Agapios spent all of his time in the courtyard, soaking in the memories of he and Psykhe making love. When work ceased on the wall and it did not rise any higher, he'd guessed the work was over. The barrier between him and Psykhe had been completed. He walked along the wall, trailing his hand over it, trying to maintain some connection to his beloved. Towards the end of the wall, his finger caught a crack and he kneeled next to the opening, seeing a sliver of light pass through the wall. He peered through the fault and though it was small, he could make out part of Psykhe's form on the other side. "Psykhe?"

"Agapios?"

"Oh, Psykhe…" he began, unable to get out any more words. His mind was failing him and it felt like his body was as well, pain and relief overwhelming him. His heart felt as though it was healing and breaking at the same time. It was so good to hear her sweet voice, but with it, an incredible longing felt as though it was going to overtake him. His breaths ceased as he closed his eyes and waited for a response.

"Agapios, you found it."

He fell forward, his forehead landing softly against the stone. His palm came up and rested against the wall just below his head. His eyes remained closed and he breathed in deeply, overwhelmed by the intensity of the emotion he was feeling. "Psykhe…"

It was quiet on the other end and he feared he'd lost, or worse, dreamed the connection. He squeezed his eyes shut. Then, a stifled sob reached his ears. His features softened, though he still refused to open his eyes, or to remove his hand and forehead from the wall. "What is it, Psykhe?"

"You're here."

"I'm here." He let out a small, pained, watery laugh, betraying some of his disbelief. His voice rose in pitch though not in volume, letting out much of his emotion. "You're here."

"I am."

"I've missed you." The words were quiet and he worried she hadn't been able to hear them through the crack in the wall, but her whispered response let him know that they had. "I've missed you too."

"How have you been?"

"Miserable…lonely. And you?"

Agapios sat back on his heels but kept his hand to the wall. "The same. Not a second has passed that I haven't ached for you. I've looked for you, in that tree just outside of the city, where you used to watch me as I rode home from the gymnasia."

"I've been confined to the house. Today is the first day I've been allowed out, but now I'm limited to the courtyard."

"Now that there is a wall to separate us."

Psykhe didn't answer, but there was no need. They both knew it to be true. Agapios stared at the light streaming through the fissure in the wall. "But we're still connected, by a sliver of air, a fault large enough only for our voices and light to pass through." He shifted forward, kissing the tiny opening in the wall before resting his forehead on the back of his hand. His other hand fingered the opening, a minute connection to her, but one he could cling to, a space to small to touch her, but large enough for their souls to connect. He longed to have the power to maintain that connection, but he feared it would be fleeting, just as his time with her had been. At any moment, her father could agree to a marriage. Agapios slammed his eyes shut, curling his fingers and pressing his forehead hard into the back of his hand. He struggled with his next words. "Psykhe, has your father consented…"

"No," she cut him off quickly and he breathed a long sigh of relief. His body relaxed and his head was once again resting only lightly on his hand.

"I have a gift for you, for your birthday. I had wanted to give it to you then."

"Oh?" Her voice was quiet and full of surprise and of longing. "Agapios, I need no gifts. I need only you."

"That isn't in my power to give. If the choice were mine, you'd have me, all of me, but all that I can give you is my heart and you already have that. You've been in possession of both my heart and my soul our entire lives."

He heard a sniffle, then Psykhe's voice breaking as she whispered, "That only makes me long for you more."

"I know."

"Then give yourself to me." She was pleading and he could hear the tears in her voice as it rose. "We can marry, without my father's permission."

Agapios rocked on his knees, closing his eyes, wishing it were that simple. Her youth was showing. As much of a woman as she now was, she was still just on the threshold. "Psykhe, you know you cannot marry without a male guardian consenting to your affairs."

"Then we can sail away together, live on some island where we can just be together as we are."

"You know we cannot do that."

"Why not?"

She was now openly crying and he was on the cusp of doing the same. "It would not be honorable. Look at how Troy was treated for Paris and Helen's betrayal."

"That is different. Paris seduced a married woman, one he thought he was entitled to, not one he truly loved, nor who truly loved him. If she had, she wouldn't have repented after Menelaus took her back. My love for you is true. I don't understand how it could be thought dishonorable to be with the one I love."

He sighed. "Psykhe…"

"We love each other. Even Pericles lives with a woman he isn't married to. It is rumored that he is in love with Aspasia and kisses her every morning before he leaves and every night before bed. We can have that. I love you."

His hand came up to wipe away the tears in his eyes. "Psykhe…"

"Do you love me, Agapios?"

"You know I do."

"Then let's sail away from here, together."

"I love you too much to do that to you. Those are the errors that tear souls apart."

"Please…"

There was a sharp pang to his heart, so painful his hand drew up to it. His eyes closed momentarily. He wanted to give her everything, but he could not give her the life she deserved if he took her away from the city and left her name to gather slanderous utterances in their absence. "Psykhe, don't you understand, I want to preserve your honor. Your father has accused me of seducing you, and perhaps I have, though it was not my intention. I've only ever wanted to show you my love. Your father has spoken of how he cannot trust me and on that, I want to argue for I believe myself to be a man worthy of trust. Were we to run away together, his accusations would appear true. I have been trying to prove to him that I am honorable and worthy of his trust, loyal to the Polis. I am that man, Psykhe."

"I know you are."

"Then have faith in me. Wait. Deny all the suitors your father brings before you; discourage them in any way and wait for me. The fates have placed us on earth for each other. We will find a way, one that is truthful and honorable. _Nothing is there beyond hope; nothing that can be sworn impossible…"_

"Archilochus."

"Yes. Do you trust me?"

Her answer was soft, but held much conviction. "Yes."

"I trust in you. I trust in our love. I trust in our destiny. We will be together. Will you wait?"

"Forever."

He smiled against his hand. "I will work it out. Until then, I will come and sit here by the wall every day, and I'll remain until night falls or until you have to leave. I wish I could touch you or hold you, but all I'll be able to offer you is words. I know it is not enough, but…"

"It is something. I've missed speaking with you, hearing your voice and listening as you teach me all that you've learned."

He smiled, tears in his eyes. Slowly he let himself fall forward and he sat by the wall, making himself comfortable for an afternoon of talking. He smiled as he listened to her and as he spoke, their conversation drifting long into the evening. When she was called inside, he placed a kiss on the wall, running his hand over the stone where his lips had been.

*****

He returned to the wall that night, digging away at the earth below the wall. Slowly and carefully, he dug a channel, stopping just short of breaking the ground on her side of the wall.

The next day, when he returned to the wall again, she was waiting for him. He took the scarf he'd carefully wrapped in a piece of torn linen in an attempt to keep it clean, and slid it into the channel he'd dug the nigh before. His hand released the scarf and slipped past it, as his fingers worked at the earth where she was seated. When his fingers felt air, he slipped his hand back down and lifted up the scarf. "Psykhe," he spoke softly, "do you see that small hole on your side of the wall?"

"Yes."

"Dig it out."

He waited until he felt her hand slip into the channel. At the feel of her fingers on his, he handed her the linen wrapped scarf. "Your gift."

Her hand lingered in the hole and he took the opportunity to grasp her fingers, holding onto them as if they were a lifeline. His heart soared as those fingers returned the clasp and her thumb rubbed softly against his. It was with a great deal of reluctance that he let go, wanting her to see her present. He pushed the lined back into her hand and withdrew his.

It was her gasp that alerted him to the moment she opened her gift. He pictured her running her hands over it as he had done, and fingering the sticking of the butterfly.

"It's beautiful."

"My butterfly winged goddess."

It was silent. He closed his eyes and imagined her smiling softly. His hand slipped back into the channel and he found hers had done the same. That afternoon, they were able to hold hands and he was able to lightly stroke her soft skin as they sat and talked and he reveled in it, knowing they'd have to bury the hole and leave it buried, lest it should be discovered.


	9. The Greek, VIII

**The Greek, VIII**

She clung to the wall like it was a lifeline. Indeed, it was a lifeline, a connection to the life she dreamed of, but that was now forbidden to her. Daily she waited by the wall, spending hours alone in the morning, sitting next to the wall, grasping her scarf in a firm clutch and dreaming.

Every afternoon he came as promised, talking with her late into the evening, whispering words of love and vowing he'd find a way for them to be together. She spent a great deal of their time together weeping, finding the waiting and the longing so hard, but his words were always soothing and comforting. She still felt the ghost of his fingers on hers from the last time they'd touched. She wanted to dig out the hole and touch him again, even if it was only once more, but fear of discovery and fear of losing their only remaining connection held her back.

They often lost track of the time and at times it would grow dark before they would reluctantly part. Her parents left her, her mother knowing what her time by the wall meant and her father happy to have his daughter finally so obediently content to stay in the courtyard. She knew her father had thought he'd reached her and thought that she was now prepared to act the lady of her class and she let him think it, lest he should discover the real reason she was so firmly fixed to the courtyard. Only after first signs of daylight fading, was she called into the house and beckoned away from her love.

When it did come time for her and Agapios to part each evening, it was with great unwillingness. She often lingered for moments and had to force herself away from the wall. Before leaving, she'd repeat the sentiments he'd spoken earlier and kiss the wall, imagining him doing the same on the other side. She could do this, she told herself when leaving. She could fend off suitors and wait, just as Penelope had done. Agapios would find a way…

*****

Days after first asking Psykhe if her father had consented to a marriage for her, and the day that the members of the Cavalry found out that they were called to leave on an operation for the Delian League, Agapios had found out why Psykhe's father had yet to choose a suitor. The Cavalry and the gymnasia were both abuzz with talk of who would win Psykhe's hand, though now that the Cavalry had been called away, any appeals towards Onassis would not take place until they returned. It was with great sadness that Agapios would be parted from Psykhe for those weeks he was sure to be gone, but there was some relief in knowing he would not have to worry about any offers of marriage while he was away. Onassis would never consider any man not in the Cavalry, where all the finest of the elite under the age of forty served.

Agapios listened to the talk of Onassis and Psykhe with interest, wanting to gain some insight into his chances of convincing Onassis to let him wed Psykhe before she was wed to another man. There were many factors all working in his favor to keep Onassis from marrying off his daughter. To begin with, Onassis refused any proposals from democrats. The rift between conservatives and democrats was strong and even the finest democrats were refused Psykhe's hand. Other men, conservatives who would be favorable to Onassis, feared having a wife in possession of such beauty. Psykhe's beauty, while very coveted, combined with her independent spirit and penchant for sneaking out in the town, made possible suitors weary. Her splendor was a double edged sword, desirable yet feared. Suitors were worried her beauty, her lack of reservation and her frequent outings into town would provide ample opportunity for other men to seduce her. And, as a woman, they saw her as weak, easily tempted and sure to cave to the seduction of a desirable man. Any honor her beauty would bring to him would be taken away two fold once another man took her to his bed.

The gossip left Agapios both relieved and indignant. He knew if he were to wed Psykhe, she would be the most honorable of wives. However, to defend her would open the door to other suitors more favorable to Onassis. He listened without emotion, hiding his anger as the men spoke not of winning her hand in marriage, but of waiting for her to marry and seducing her afterwards, winning her body instead. Not all the men spoke with such vulgarity, but the talk was enough to ward off those men who feared taking a wife that brought about such interest. Those who had survived the talk and were still interested, were put off by Psykhe herself who told each suitor her father placed before her that she would not be honorable to him.

It was only when the conversations took the turn from marriage to a post wedded seduction that he stopped eavesdropping on what was being said, knowing that listening to the conversation was no longer in his interest and would only serve to upset him. It was then that he moved away, not noticing that Melieus had followed him out of the gymnasia.

"Agapios, I've noticed you've been melancholy for some time now. What is it?"

Agapios stopped walking and shook his head. "It is not something for you to be concerned with." He turned and began walking again. Melieus kept pace beside him.

"The one you love, that you have that connection you spoke of, you have lost that love."

He looked away but was unable to hide from the truth in Melieus's words. While he hadn't yet really lost Psykhe, the inability to see her and to touch her was weighing on his soul.

"Perhaps then, you would not be opposed to seeking out that connection with me."

"I'm sorry, Melieus."

"Your heart is still in that connection."

Again he turned away and again was he unable to hide from Melieus's words.

"Well then, at least let me offer my friendship. Come with me this afternoon. We'll go to the theater and see a play by Sophocles. It will take your mind off of all that has been weighing you down."

See a play by Sophocles? He was living one, some divine punishment striking at him for taking Psykhe's body before she was his. "Thank you, but no. I have somewhere to be."

No sooner had he said it when they ran into Onassis. Onassis looked down at the two men with a raised eyebrow. While he could not muster up an appropriate expression, Melieus smiled brightly beside him. "Onassis, a pleasure."

"Melieus, Agapios." Agapios was aware of Onassis's eyes glancing between him and Melieus. "Melieus, I see you have found yourself a golden headed boy to become intimate with, a fine choice."

Melieus laughed. "Ah, no, Onassis, unfortunately for me, young Agapios here is unattainable. His heart is faithful to another."

Agapios risked a glance at Onassis. His eyes, sullen and sincere, met Onassis's briefly before Onassis abruptly looked away.

Melieus seemed not to notice the brief exchange. "Onassis, I was hoping to have a word with you about your daughter. Would it be pleasing to call on you later?"

Agapios's heart stopped. He could not move. It was the moment he'd been dreading. Onassis would not turn down a proposal from Melieus. Melieus, at twenty eight, was the perfect suitor, high in class, a conservative, powerful, honorable, handsome and strong willed. Even Psykhe would not be able to discourage Melieus. He watched as Onassis's eyes shot to him for a moment. Onassis turned back to Melieus. "Yes, come by later. I will see to it that I'm home for the evening."

Even after Onassis had left, Agapios still could not move. Melieus was speaking beside him, but he could not hear the words. He felt a hand on his arm and he turned to Melieus. "Are you not well, Agapios?"

He shook his head. "No, I am well. What were you saying?"

"I know all that has been said about the beauty of Onassis's daughter has chased away several suitors, but her independent character and desirable appearance does not worry me. A true man can handle his wife and give her a good life so that she would not seek a life or a love elsewhere. Onassis's daughter will see the importance of running a house and being an honorable wife. Besides, no man would risk crossing me by trying to seduce her."

The color drained from Agapios's face. "So you mean to ask for her hand right away?"

"Well, if I cannot have the most beautiful and desirable young man in all of Greece as my lover, then I want the most beautiful and delicate creature in all of Greece as my wife."

"But we are to leave tomorrow."

"I know. I'll wed her once I return. It will be comforting to know I have something to come back to."

Agapios paled again. Melieus was speaking as if it was certain he'd be granted Psykhe's hand, and while Agapios knew that it was as good as certain, he hated the confidence Melieus displayed. He could no longer breathe. Melieus looked at him again. "Are you sure you are well, Agapios?"

"No, perhaps you were right. I am not. I must go." He left abruptly, leaving Melieus behind to stare at him.

*****

Psykhe waited by the wall, wondering what was taking Agapios so long. Normally, he was on the other side of the wall, whispering words of endearment by that time. As each minute passed, her level of anxiety rose. What could have detained him? Had the Cavalry been called out suddenly? Had something happened to him?

Her anxiety diminished only slightly when he arrived. Even before he spoke, she could sense a disturbance in him that rang through the opening in the wall. Then, he cried out, a shattering, painful cry, "Psykhe, I love you. Please remember that I love you." The words shot through the fissure, the sad, tormented cry piercing her heart. It was so uncharacteristic of him to have such an outburst of emotion. Normally it was she who was prone to such outbursts. Her heart clenched. "Agapios, what is it?"

It was silent and her despair began to increase again. Her heart was beating fast, so fast it felt as though it was going to beat right out of her chest. Tears stung her eyes. She placed a hand on the wall and whispered, "I love you." Only silence met her words and she wondered if he'd responded so softly she couldn't hear, or if he'd responded at all. She could hear his breathing, a strangled sob that tore right through her and she knew he hadn't spoken. "Agapios, please, say something."

"The Cavalry leaves tomorrow."

"Oh," she stopped short, unable to form any more words. She wanted to beg him not to go, plead with him to take her and sail away somewhere, but every syllable became lodged in her throat. Besides, she knew he wouldn't do it. He was far too honorable a man. She would have to let him go and hope he returned to her.

"Psykhe, always remember that I love you."

His voice was so full of distress, she found it nearly unbearable to listen to. Was he afraid he wouldn't return to her, or did he fear she'd forget him while he was gone? Oh, how she wished she could hold him and reassure him. "I will always know and I will always love you."

"I will carry that with me."

"I'll be waiting for your return." She allowed herself a soft, wistful smile. "Maybe once you prove yourself in battle, my father will relent. At the very least, we won't have to worry about having to discourage any suitors while the Cavalry is away."

It was silent again and Psykhe wondered why he hadn't let out a relieved response. The silence penetrated the wall more profoundly than any words could. It left her in anguish. She sat silently, letting their connection filter through the wall, fearing any words would shatter the last rays of hope.

"Psykhe." Her father's voice rang out and she scrambled to her feet. Her father approached with a very handsome man she knew to be Melieus. She tensed. Melieus was known to be a very honorable man and he was much admired by her father. He was approaching the age to marry and his presence in the courtyard worried her. Suddenly she knew the reason for Agapios's intense silence. Melieus approached wearing a tender smile. Psykhe backed in to the wall.

"Daughter, Melieus has asked for your hand and I have consented."

"I leave tomorrow, with the Cavalry, but we will wed once I return."

"No," she whispered, shaking her head.

"Psykhe, it is done. I have consented. We have arranged a dowry for you. When Melieus returns, you will be his wife."

Tears fell from her eyes. "You would not like me for a wife, for I am not at all maidenly."

Melieus smiled, looking her up and down. "You appear maidenly. You are a startlingly beautiful girl."

"But I would not honor you. Please, choose a girl who would bring you honor."

Her father frowned and glared at her. His voice was low. "Daughter, that is enough. You will not chase this suitor away. You will not become a financial burden to me. Melieus is a fine man, honorable, conservative and powerful. He can give you a better life than any other man in Athens and you will honor him."

"No." She continued to shake her head.

"You will not dishonor your family. You will wed Melieus."

"Onassis," Melieus intervened. "May I have a moment alone with your daughter?"

Psykhe watched as her father waved his arms in the air as he stormed away. Melieus turned to her and stepped closer. She pressed her back into the wall, wishing it would devour her and release her on the other side, into Agapios's waiting arms. Her eyes widened. Agapios was on the other side, hearing all that was being said. She pictured him lying in torment.

"Your father is right. I can give you a better life than any man in Athens, and I will. Anything you desire shall be yours."

'Not anything,' she thought with heartbreaking sadness. "I won't marry you. Right now, my only desire is to not marry you."

"I will make you happy and treat you well. I will win you over with love and I know you will be an honorable wife. You are the most beautiful, delicate creature I have ever laid eyes on and it would bring me great honor to have you as mine."

"No," she cried, her voice watery. "I would never be able to give you my love. Please, take someone who could love you, who could devote herself to you."

"I would devote myself to you and in time, I know you will return that devotion."

His hand came out and cupped her cheek. She turned her face away. "I could let myself be seduced…"

His response was soft. "But would you? By a man dishonorable enough to try?"

She looked down, knowing only one man could ever have her and he was far too honorable a man to allow himself to have her once she married. She choked back a sob, desperately searching for a way to convince this man that he should not take her. "I like to run about the town. I would not stay in the house as a wife should."

"You will grow out of that. I hear you like to stay here. You father tells me that you love this courtyard. He tells me you spend all your days here, by this wall, sitting in the grass until the light from the sun diminishes. I will build you the finest courtyard, one you would not want to leave, but rather would spend all of your hours in." His finger lifted her chin and his gaze pierced hers. "Psykhe," he spoke softly, using her given name as though they were already intimate. "I know you speak out of fear, but please, you have nothing to fear. I will be a good husband. I will be gentle when I show you how to love…"

She bit her lip. There was only one chance left and she feared the consequences of taking that chance, but it remained her only hope. "I have already been shown love. Another man has already touched me."

Melieus's eyes widened. She could feel him studying her, searching for the truth in her face. She knew if he searched hard enough, he'd see it. She was no longer the blushing girl maiden she was before making love to Agapios, but a woman with a woman's glow. "Yes, I believe you have." He stepped back and turned his back to her, standing silently. He turned back slowly. "And somehow, I think it makes you even more beautiful, the smoldering glow of a woman on you. You are far more beautiful today than when I last saw you."

"I will always love him."

He nodded, his lips pressed together. "I think that you will. A person can never forget the man who first showed him or you, how to love. I think you will find I am a very understanding man. The love we will share, it will be different. We will be intimate in the way only man and wife can be. You will grow to love me."

"No. Please, no."

"The love you first experienced was not meant to be, but perhaps ours is. Perhaps some of your reluctance stems from fear. Perhaps you feared my reaction the first time we come together, or perhaps you fear you are too easily seduced. I trust that you chose wisely for your first time, a man honorable enough to respect the union of man and wife. I trust that it would not happen again. Your fears are not mine. Psykhe, I know you think you don't want to marry me, but if you could be with the one you believe you love above all else, you would be. Your father could consent to a number of men and many would not be as understanding as I. You cannot dissuade me. I will give you a life so good, you will not seek a love elsewhere."

She didn't know how to respond. Her heart was breaking. She searched for anything that could possibly work to dissuade him, but she felt the hopelessness of it. When she didn't respond, he smiled. "Now, I will tell your father that all has been settled." He stepped forward and lifted her hand, placing a kiss on her wrist. "When I return, we will begin that life."

When he left, she slid down the wall, resting her back against it as she sat on the grass. She began to weep. "Agapios, I tried. I tried everything."

"I know."

The sincerity and the sadness in his voice broke her.

*****

Her sobs penetrated the wall and tore right through him. He was weeping as well, a shared heartache consuming the lovers. He thought of attempting to scale the wall, retrieving her and sailing her away as she'd pleaded for him to do, but he knew such actions would not end well. They could be together and happy for perhaps a short time, but guilt and shame would eat at him, and Psykhe would have to leave the only life she knew for one that was uncertain, possibly regretting it. He could not build the life for her she deserved, being so consumed by looking over his shoulder, waiting for Melieus and Onassis to find him as they would certainly be unable to allow such a betrayal to pass. Their bodies would be ripped apart in life and their souls ripped apart in death.

He leaned against the wall, his soul dying as he attempted to fight off the reality of what had just occurred. His mind ran through the chances that Melieus would not return and his heart ached with guilt for even thinking about it. Melieus was a good man, and perhaps Melieus, he had to grudgingly accept, could give Psykhe the best life possible. "He's a good man, Psykhe."

"I won't marry him. I'll find a way out of it. Please Agapios, let's run away."

He wanted to. "We can't."

"We were placed here for each other."

"And fate will intervene. We cannot tempt fate." He spoke with little conviction, finding faith hard to keep when Psykhe was promised to another.

"I love you…"

Her voice cried out and he squeezed his eyes together trying to stop the cascading tears. "Psykhe…"

"Agapios!" The male voice caused him to raise his head. Melieus was striding towards him. He wiped the tears from his eyes and stared at Melieus as he approached. "Melieus?"

"I was just at your neighbors, arranging my marriage to Onassis's daughter. It is done. I will be wed once we return. I may not get to experience the ideal love with you, but the gods have smiled on me enough to let me experience marriage with that desirable creature." Apapios paled. Melieus stared at him. "I thought I'd stop by to see how you were feeling. Your father told me that you were back here. You still look pale. Are you still not well?"

He shook his head.

"Oh, I am sorry. I hope you will feel better before we leave in the morning."

Agapios did not respond. His heart was too full of despair. Here stood the man who was the cause of a lot of the pain and heartache, asking him if he was well. He just wanted Melieus to leave so that he and Psykhe could grieve. His gaze dropped to the ground. "Melieus, please, I am really not feeling well."

"You should be in bed, not outdoors sitting by some wall…" Melieus's voice trailed off. Agapios lifted his face and stared up at Melieus. Melieus glanced between him and the wall. Melieus's eyes lit with an insight gained and perhaps also with an opportunity to be had. Agapios swallowed and continued to stare silently.

Melieus's eyes narrowed. His voice was soft and low. "That connection, the one you spoke of sharing with another, the connection that you said I could not reach with Onassis's daughter…the love you are faithful to…the love Onassis's daughter professes to…"

Agapios closed his eyes. What cruel fate had sent Melieus there that day? Now Melieus would know of his heartache. Tears escaped from his eyes. He'd only wanted to share that love and that pain with Psykhe.

"She did choose well." It was silent for a moment before Melieus's voice sounded again, his tone reflective. "Perhaps I will stay away and do some exploring after our command is over, or perhaps something will happen while we are away that will dissuade me from marrying my betrothed. I am young. I think, perhaps, I'd like to wait a couple of years to marry, find another fair-haired boy to have a grand affair with and only then, take a young girl just beginning to bloom…" Melieus grinned. "One who has not yet been touched…"

Agapios's eyes popped open. He stared up at Melieus.

"Of course, Onassis will not have to know of my decision until after the Cavalry returns. It would give some others time to prove worthy, perhaps win some armor to bring back as a gift to a prospective father-in-law…"

"You would do that? Do you not fear that you'd be looked upon as dishonorable?"

"Would it be dishonorable or would it only appear dishonorable?"

Agapios was silent. Melieus's honor far exceeded his reputation. He was a man willing to be thought of as dishonorable when actually acting with immense nobility. "My reputation will survive. Most men think very well of me, and I am sure, would defend me against any accusations Onassis could muster."

"You would do that? You would give up such a beauty, a woman every man would covet for a wife, and endure Onassis's probable slander?"

Melieus smiled softly. "You know, I really think I do love you, as much as I desire you. You are as close to perfection as a young man could be. I am very sorry that I should not get to explore that perfection or that love…"

"You will always be counted as a close friend. You have given me great hope."

"You are a worthy young man, Agapios, as she is a worthy young woman. Love her well."

"With all my heart." Agapios stood. "I am so glad you have come by."

"You know," Melieus spoke, "it is odd, but I am too. I shall treasure your friendship, young Agapios."

He smiled. Melieus returned his soft smile before leaving. Agapios fell to his knees. "Oh Psykhe, there is yet hope." He could hear her weeping on the other side. "I do hope those tears are as mine, tears of happiness."

"And of relief. You were right to trust in fate."

He smiled, placing his hand on the wall and curling up his fingers so that only the tips touched. "It was fate that created you for me and me for you. You will still have to wait."

"I can. As long as I know we'll be together at the end, I can wait. Agapios?" Her voice grew quiet it question, as though she was unsure whether to speak

"Yes?"

"I need to see you before you leave. I need to touch you and feel you once more before you go."

Agapios leaned forward and rested his forehead on his hand. "I need to see you as well. I need to take the memory of how you feel away with me. Can you get away?"

"Not now, but I could tonight."

"Then sneak out. We'll steal a few hours together that will have to last us until I return. Where should we meet?"

"What about the tree I used to watch you from?"

He lifted his head, shaking it while smiling at the memories her words stirred. "No, it is in the middle of the city. There are too many chances of being found out. We have to meet outside the city. There is a large oak tree, much like the one in my yard, just north of the city…"

"I know it."

"Meet me there tonight?"

"I'll be there after dusk."

He smiled and placed a kiss upon the wall. "Until tonight, Psykhe."


	10. The Greek, IX

**The Greek, IX**

She waited as the light slowly faded and the sounds in the house filtered down into the quiet hums that filled the night. When the last sound of foot patters ended and no more light was to be seen other than the moonlight outside and the stars above, Psykhe carefully crept out of her window, leaping from the ledge and landing barefooted on the ground. Quickly, she ran through the courtyard and onto the street, passing the last of the houses within the city.

Psykhe passed by a couple properties that fell outside the city's boundaries, owned by the old Aristocracy. The sounds of a few animals, disturbed by her movements, were the only sounds to be heard in the night. She came across a meadow, navigating herself in the direction of the oak tree by the light from the nearly full moon. Ahead of her, something stirred and she stilled. Taking a careful look, she noticed a lioness snacking on a dead animal in the grass. The lioness's eyes glowed in the night, and its mouth dripped with blood. Fear coursed through her. The animal was in between her and the tree, between her and the place she was to meet Agapios. She stared at the lioness, breathing a sigh of relief when she noticed it was taking no notice of its surroundings.

Creeping forward slowly, she gave the massive animal a wide berth, traveling east for some distance before heading back north. When she was near the tree, she broke out into a run, losing her scarf and gaining the lioness's attention. She scurried up the tree, thankful that her childhood of climbing trees allowed her to climb quickly and nimbly. The lioness moved towards the tree and she peered down at it, watching it roll around on the ground and claw her scarf, her beautiful birthday gift from Agapios. She quietly sat, hoping it would drop the scarf, but the lioness took the scarf in its jaws and slipped away. Tears fell from her eyes at the loss of such a precious gift, knowing it was far too dangerous to risk any retrieval. Agapios would understand. She stayed, perched in the tree, waiting for his arrival.

*****

Agapios passed the city limits, walking by Melieus's property outside of the city. He sent a silent look of gratitude in the direction of the estate, knowing how fortunate he was to count Melieus as a friend. He smiled, so thankful Melieus was a far-seeing man and he knew he'd value Melieus's friendship for a long time.

He reached the meadow and the anticipation of being able to see Psykhe and to touch her building up in him. He quickened his pace, jogging in the direction of the tree before stopping abruptly in his tracks. Sighting a bloodied lioness, Agapios drew his sword, watching to see what the lioness would do. The lioness's head fell to the grass and Agapios drew a quick breath. He moved forward again, slowly, stopping once more as the lioness lifted its head. The lioness's bloody jaw was clamped over a piece of fabric, the length of familiar material pillowing in the breeze. His heart clenched, Psykhe's scarf. He would recognize it anywhere, having spent so many days and nights clutching it and mourning a love he'd thought was lost, one that now was…

Agapios fell to his knees and lifted his arms and face to the sky, crying out in agony. His howl carried and echoed through the night. He continued to cry out, arching his torso forward. It was his fault. He had been so consumed by almost having lost her and needing to see her and feel her that he let his judgment fall, asking her to steal away in the night. He told her they had to meet outside the city. He had tempted the fates.

He let out one last cry and stood quickly, sprinting at the lioness with his sword drawn and blade glinting in the moonlight. The lioness looked up at him and just as he was about to plunge his sword into the beast, he stopped. His arms fell from above his head, knowing that killing the animal would not accomplish anything. It would not ease his suffering, for his suffering would be eternal. At best, it would only satisfy a fleeting need for revenge and provide a temporary outlet for his anger. Psykhe was still gone with Hades. The guilt of slaying the beast out of revenge would only add to his guilt over Psykhe's death.

He stared at the lioness and backed up slightly, but the lioness did not move. His hands let go of the sword and cried out again, a soulful, mournful song that would rival Orpheus. Just as Orpheus used his song to soften the hearts of the gods so that he could travel into the underworld to retrieve his love, Eurydice, Agapios used his cry to soften the hearts of the gods so that he could be with his own love in the underworld, not making the mistake of trying to retrieve her, as Orpheus had, but staying with her for eternity.

The lioness was still watching him. He rushed at it, weaponless, crying out for the beast to take him as well. Throwing himself on the lioness, he wrestled the scarf from the lioness's jaw. A large paw came out and swatted him, propelling him backwards onto the ground. He lifted himself to his knees and slowly rose. The lioness took a couple more swipes at him, its claws digging into his skin. With all the strength he could muster, he stood, throwing himself on the beast once more. The lioness threw him off and swatted him, its paw coming across his chest, tearing it open. Bleeding fatally, he kneeled and waited for the lioness to finish him off, but the lioness only moved away, having already satisfied its appetite. Agapios clutched at Psykhe's scarf and picked up his sword, dragging it behind him as he limped towards the oak tree. The journey seemed long and it sapped the remainder of his strength, but he made it to the tree, collapsing against its base.

*****

Psykhe heard the cries ring out through the night air and she froze in her place. Feelings of dread passed through her as she waited for Agapios to arrive. Her eyes closed as she desperately tried to believe the cries she heard did not come from him. The final cry was her undoing. Carefully, she swung down from the tree and ran out into the meadow, seeing the lioness move towards her. She could see nothing beyond that. Sprinting back into the tree and climbing back onto its branches, she watched as the lioness passed by.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her body trembling in the tree as she waited…and waited. She was torn between remaining in the tree and running back out into the meadow, but the tree won out. She was afraid of what she'd find in the meadow. Finally the sound of heavy footfalls and something dragging along the ground, reached her ears. She opened her eyes just in time to see Agapios collapse against the tree.

"Agapios!" she cried, swinging down the branches, throwing herself onto the ground. She kneeled beside him, gently placing his head on her lap, her hands cupping his face as she watched him clutch her scarf to his chest. Tears fell from her eyes, landing on his face.

"Psykhe…" came the quiet, pained voice.

"I'm here."

"I thought…" She watched as his chest heaved heavily as he strained to speak, his words coming out in whispers. He coughed before continuing, choking each word. "I was going to the underworld to be with you."

Psykhe sniffled, nodding. "I know, but Agapios, I haven't gone there. Stay with me here in this world."

He nodded slowly, coughing again. His hand reached up for her face, but never made it, falling back down to his side.

"No," she cried softly, "no, don't." Her hand moved from his face and pressed down on his chest. Blood from the wounds gathered between her fingers. "Stay with me, Agapios."

His eyes opened and a smile formed. "Psykhe…" he whispered, closing his eyes again. Beneath her hand, his chest stopped rising.

"No…no…" she whispered, bending so that her forehead touched his, her tears bathing his face. She closed her eyes, waiting to feel his breath on her, but there was none. He was gone. He'd left her.

Tears spilling from her eyes, she lifted his head from her lap and set it gently down onto the ground. She stood up slowly, letting her tears fall from her face and onto his body, small pools of white getting lost in a sea of red. He was going to the underworld to be with her and she could not exist in this world without him. She looked down at the sword by his side and bent down to pick it up. With a lament to the gods, asking to be joined forever with Agapios in death, she stood the sword upright, holding onto the blade and positioning the sword so that the handle rested against the earth. Calmly, his name on her lips, she fell forward, gasping as the sword plunged into her. She fell to her knees and slowly pulled the blade from her stomach. Her hands dropped the sword and she crawled over Agapios's body, wrapping an arm around him and laying her head on his still warm chest.

*****

The bodies were found by Melieus the next morning. Having heard strange howls in the night, he rode out early, wanting to check over his livestock before leaving with the Cavalry. A goat was missing and he searched the grounds, coming to a stop on the edge of his lands. He looked out into the meadow that bordered his land, riding out into it in search of the animal. At the base of the lone tall oak tree, he saw something lying in the grass and rode closer, trying to make out what it was as it was too large to be his missing goat.

As he drew closer, his attention was captured by a scarf, red covering over blue, pinned to the mass on the ground and blowing in the wind. Approaching the scarf, he slowed his horse and dismounted, dropping to one knee and hanging his head at the sight of the two beautiful youths joined together in death. Both heads' golden hairs were matted with blood. Psykhe's hair, loose and not styled up into her usual braided halo, splayed across Agapios's chest. Their white linens were stained a crimson red, as was the grass around them. Melieus sighed deeply, knowing what was meant to be a temporary farewell between two lovers turned into a permanent farewell from the land.

A bird swooped down, pecking at Agapios's chest and Melieus drew his weapon, swiping at the bird and scaring it off. He stood, turning to one of his servants. "Watch these bodies. Do not let any birds or animals near them. I'll be back shortly with their parents."

He rode back with Onassis. Onassis's wife and Agapios's parents followed behind them. When the reached the tree, Melieus watched as Agapios's mother hung back while Psykhe's mother and Agapios's father both fell before the two bodies, their grief flowing out of them, Agapios's father crying out, "my son, my son."

Onassis dismounted and Melieus watched as Onassis stared down at the two bodies, whispering softly, "He lured you into his arms, and now Psykhe, he has lured you into death."

Melieus leaned forward, looking down at Onassis from his horse. "He was a fine young man, Onassis. They were in love."

Onassis spun on him. "I suppose you knew. How were they able to arrange a meeting last night? You carried a message between them yesterday."

He shook his head sadly. "Strike out at me in anger if you must, Onassis, but their message did not need to be carried by man. They communicated through the wall. It was how I discovered their love. Agapios sat on the opposite side as Psykhe. I never would have asked for your daughter's hand had I known Agapios how deeply Agapios cared for her."

Melieus watched as the eyes of Psykhe's mother and Agapios's father met. His gaze wandered back to Onassis. Onassis turned his back on the bodies. "They never could have married. He was too young and I'd suspected he was a sophist."

A soft laugh escaped from Melieus. "Agapios? Agapios was for the truth and for love only. He was the finest of all the young men. He would have made the greatest husband for your daughter and having him as a son-in-law would have brought you great honor." Melieus dismounted and placed a hand on Onassis's shoulder. "He was a democrat and that was your dispute. Onassis, this rift between us and the democrats will be resolved, but the love these two youths share is eternal. The story of their love, a love so pure, will be written about and spoken of for generations. Your daughter loved that boy so, she followed him into death."

Onassis's head fell to his chest. "The fault is my own." Melieus watched as Onassis stepped forward and placed his own hand on Agapios's father's shoulder. Onassis spoke quietly. "Shall we bury them here, together?"

Agapios's father nodded and stood. Quietly, Melieus back away from the mourning parents and approached his servants, sending them for supplies to bury the bodies. The servants returned, solemnly preparing a grave for the two youths, whose bodies would forever rest together.


	11. Interlude: The American, I

**A/N: **A huge, huge, huge thank you to everybody who reviewed the first life. I'm sorry it had to end so tragically, but I based it on the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe, from Ovid, which really took place in ancient Babylon, but I really wanted to start with a Greek Tragedy, and what better time to put it in than in the time of Pericles and Socrates and Sophocles. Anyways, again, thank you all so, so much. It definitely made the writing easier. I'm still short on ideas for a couple other lives…

**Interlude: The American**

_**San Francisco, 1998**_

Sara Sidle entered the conference room just behind her colleague, Jon Mason. While she was excited about having an endless number of forensic seminars at her fingertips, she was a little hesitant about attending this one. Her supervisor had recommended it, telling her it would likely be very informative. Her colleagues though, ones who had seen the speaker before, warned her that she might find the speaker a little, well, dull. Sara dragged Jon along with her, knowing that if the speaker was as dull as he was reputed to be, Jon would at least offer her some form of entertainment and he was delivering. They'd barely made it in the door and his light-hearted antics had her throwing her head back in laughter.

Her head came forward again and she looked down at the podium. What would have normally been a brief meeting of the eyes between her and the man standing at the podium evolved into something more. Immediately his eyes caught hers and she couldn't look away. She stopped moving. He was looking at her as though he was trying to place her from somewhere, and while she felt this immediate connection to him, she knew she'd never met Dr. Gilbert Grissom before. Suddenly, she wasn't worried about how dull the seminar would be. The speaker had certainly already captured her attention.

He was older, about forty if she were to hazard a guess, curly blonde hair and deep blue eyes. His skin held a slight tan, but not anything she'd expect from somebody coming from Las Vegas. He was graying slightly, but still attractive, very attractive in fact. She stared at him, unable to break their gaze until she heard her name called. Finally, she turned her head to the side to see Jon calling her over. She glanced back at Dr. Grissom quickly before heading over to where Jon was sitting, laughing as he flirted innocently. She faced the podium, knowing that the next few hours were certain to be very interesting.

Dr. Grissom began to talk and he was not at all dull. No, he was brilliant and enthralling and a million other adjectives that could describe a man so…captivating. He had his own peculiar brand of humor that Sara realized most of the room did not get. She was hooked, his mouth becoming her sole focus as every word that he spoke became immersed into her brain, the organ acting as a sponge to soak up everything he said.

Apparently, Jon didn't share the same opinion, quickly becoming distracted and trying to distract her. He moved quickly from amusing companion to annoying neighbor. She waved her hand at him. "Not now, Mase, I'm trying to concentrate."

"Come on Sara, he's boring."

"Shhh," she hissed. "You could learn something."

Beside her, Jon began fiddling. She ignored him and leaned forward in her seat. When Dr. Grissom finished speaking, she was disappointed. The time had gone far too quickly and she wanted to keep him talking, even if it felt as though her mind could not absorb any more. He asked if anyone had any questions and her hand shot up without her having even thought of one.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Grissom…"

"Grissom."

"What?" She was flustered. She'd only gone as far as to say his name and she was flustered.

"Just call me Grissom."

"Oh, uh, Grissom…" Her brain worked fast to retrieve information. She asked him a question about weather and its effect on insect activity and he smiled, answering the question. She let out a sigh of relief and to keep him talking, she raised her hand again.

Sara wasn't sure how many questions she asked, but as she glanced around and saw people checking their watches, she knew it was probably one or two or three too many. Blushing, she stopped raising her hand and waited for the room to filter out, approaching him after practically pushing Jon through the door when he waited for her. She asked another question, this time on anthropology, her motive not to keep Dr. Grissom talking this time, but to gather her nerves so she could ask the question she'd really wanted to ask him since he first opened his mouth.

*****

The moment she opened her mouth and asked her first question, he knew he'd never met her before. She was intelligent and had formulated a very intelligent question, and yet she was curiously and almost adorably flustered. Her question came out, thoughtful and insightful and he knew that if he'd met her, he definitely would have remembered.

She asked so many questions and remembered so many details, he was almost embarrassed. At least one person hung on his every word…literally. He smiled, responding as best he could, hoping he communicated himself clearly, as often at these things where people didn't know him or know how his mind worked, people tended not to understand his sometimes cryptic or allegorical responses. Sara Sidle, as she had introduced herself, seemed to have understood his answers. He could almost see her working over his responses in her brain.

The questions continued on until people started to check their watches. He watched, amused, as she mercifully noticed the movements and blushed. The room began to filter out and the young man she was with waited for her. When she told the young man to go on without her and she approached the podium, Grissom felt nervous, excited and confused all at the same time.

More questions spilled from her mouth and he smiled. How the topic changed from entomology to anthropology, he wasn't sure, but he liked people who were inherently curious and who questioned everything. He could connect with people who were always in search of the truth, and he certainly felt a connection to her.

His initial attraction, he thought, stemmed from her youth and from her natural beauty, but as she asked more and more questions and he responded, he found himself attracted to her mind. It worked like his, searching out the puzzle and finding different ways to complete said puzzle. He was drawn in by her, as though there was an invisible string connecting the two, pulling him in with each question.

"Grissom, do you like to eat?" she stammered and his brow furrowed.

"Yes, I've been known to have a meal from time to time."

"Sorry…I mean…would you like to eat…with me?" she clarified and he stared at her, wondering why this beautiful, young woman would want to share a meal with him.

"It's just that it's getting late and I'm, well, getting hungry and I still have so many questions I want to ask you…so lunch? If you're busy, I'd understand…and I'm talking too much, so I'll shut up, now."

"I'd love to have lunch with you."

And he did, enjoying every minute. Sara was extremely intelligent and extremely curious. Spending lunch with her morphed into spending an afternoon with her as the two struck up a quick friendship. He didn't dare to think she could be as attracted to him as he was to her and he was a little frightened by her youth, so he forced himself to think of her as almost an apprentice, carefully setting the afternoon up so that he'd fall into the role of mentor.


	12. The Persian, I

**The Nine Lives of Grissom and Sara: The Second Life**

**The Persian, I**

_The tale of Roshan and Soraya_

_**Herat, 561 CE**_

_The Persian Empire during its second golden era, under the Sassanids and their greatest emperor, Khosrau I._

He dismounted his horse and took the reigns, walking the mare through the town. Weary and exhausted, he led the horse to the Hari River, allowing it to drink its fill. Bending over, he cupped his hand and dipped it in the river, bringing it back up to his mouth. After drinking of the little water that had remained in his palm, Roshan wiped his wet hand over the nape of his neck. It had been a long journey.

The mare finally had enough water, and he began to lead it back through the town, past the old citadel from the time of Alexander the Great, past bazaars and traders, past gardens and fountains, past poets and philosophers and artists. The city had flourished in his absence, erecting new buildings and creating new gardens and fountains, all of greater splendor than what had existed when he'd left five years before.

The new governor was responsible. He'd heard murmurings of the new Shahrdar, Ehsan Khorvash, since arriving in town. Reputed to be a highly educated member of the royal family, with a love of all things classical and favored by the supreme leader, Shahanshah Khosrau, the ambitious new governor had embarked on a number of projects designed transform an already beautiful oasis into a city of irrefutable glory. The result, as far as Roshan had been able to observe, was stunning. The gardens were vast and numerous and the fountains and flow of water through the city were models of majesty. It was no wonder the city was drawing in and inspiring so many.

Yet, it was no different from the rest of the empire. In his life and in his journey, he'd seen both Herat and other cities of the empire flourish and take on greater splendor under Emperor Khosrau. It was only now that the sum of those buildings and designs were beginning to take fruit. And, while Herat had been gaining in brilliance each year of his life, the changes in the past five years and under this new governor were nothing short of magnificent.

Roshan stopped his mare next to a bazaar. Tying the horse to a post, he walked into the market and headed for a fruit stand. He picked up a pomegranate, an apricot, a plum and some grapes and searched his pockets for some currency, finding only a few drachma coins lining his pockets. Though he'd been traveling along the Silk Road, he hadn't made it home with any real currency that the traders along the route would take with them. No, the journey hadn't been undertaken to make money or join a trade caravan, but had been embarked upon as an education. He'd managed to survive on the money he'd started out with when leaving from home and by performing various trades along the route, acting as a physician, a translator and a teacher. The journey had been long and dangerous, and moving on with a new caravan each time they reached a trade center had been trying, but the experience had been unparallel. He'd been on hand to watch as silks and porcelain and spices and tapestries passed from one caravan to another on the route west. He'd slept under the stars with traders and found comfort in the caravanserai in the major centers. He'd seen the world, from China to the Byzantine. He'd learned so much and experienced so much, he could rest and write treatises for the remainder of his life.

Returning to his horse, his pockets now empty of currency, he pitted the apricot and held out his hand for the mare to take. The large lips brushed over his palm and the two halves of the apricot were devoured. After untying his horse and moving along through town, he bit into his plum, moaning as the sweet taste of fruit on his palate began to nourish him.

The remainder of the walk to his father's home was spent sharing grapes with his horse. He arrived at the humble dwelling and tied his horse, moving towards the front door. He knocked and his mother answered, pulling him into her arms and weeping.

"Hello, mother."

"Roshan, you are home, after so many years. My son, my youngest son."

He pulled back and smiled softly. "Yes, mother, I am home."

"Let me look at you." Her hands grasped his arms as she studied him. "You are a man. When you left, you were still such a boy."

"I was seventeen, mother."

"And now, you are twenty two. You look tired and thin, but safe. Oh, Roshan, I am so happy you have returned safely."

He grinned, hugging his mother again. "Where is father?"

"He had some duties to perform. Wait until he sees you. He has worried for you ever since you left." His mother's voice grew quiet and she clung to him. She was speaking for his father, but he knew it was an only an attempt to channel her own worries onto his father.

"A man must choose his own path, mother."

"I know."

He pulled back again and smiled. "I brought you some things back, treasures from the east. Would you like to see them?"

"Roshan, you have brought yourself back. That is the treasure."

"So you wouldn't like a silk wall covering?"

"Oh, Roshan…"

He smiled and took her hand, leading her out to his horse. Lifting a packet from the back of the horse, he handed it to his mother. She opened the silk wall covering and revealed the floral designs decorating the silk. "It's beautiful."

"Roshan, is that you?"

Roshan turned to see his aging father rushing towards him and pulling him into a hug. "You are home."

"Hello, father."

"When did you arrive?"

"Just now."

"And you are well?"

"Very well, father. I am safe and happy, and I have so much to tell the both of you."

He took the remainder of his purchases from the horse and followed his father inside. "I brought back some spices for you, father."

"Thank you son. I'm touched you thought to bring me something." His father took the spices and placed them on the table. "How was your journey?"

"Long and tiring, but very educational. I saw so much and learned so much, father. I met with people of so many different cultures and I saw so many different lands."

His father smiled. "Yes, I can imagine. You did not run into any problems?"

Roshan glanced at the nervous look on his mother's face and shook his head. "Not many. It was hard moving from caravan to caravan, but other than that…"

"That is good. Are you hungry?"

Roshan's eyes lit up with the thought of food and he turned away sheepishly. He did not want to admit that he'd spent the last few weeks very short on currency and subsiding on very little food. "I could eat."

His mother rose and immediately began to prepare him some food. His father turned to himn inquiring, "Other than traveling with numerous caravans, you encountered no other problems?"

Roshan sighed. "It was dangerous at times, father. We encountered bandits and battles, but the caravans managed to escape without suffering any losses and it showed me the whole scope."

"And money, the currency you took with you, lasted you?"

"For awhile, but I also worked along the route. I earned enough to feed myself and pay for Atefeh's stays at the caravanserai."

"Your horse was well cared for, then?"

"Very. Atefeh received as much care as I. There were times when water was quite scarce, but we both made it through."

"Good. Good."

There was a slight pause as the two men were silent. Roshan looked at his father. "Father, I am out of money now. I'll need to find work. Have you heard of any?"

"You could work as an administrator like me and your brothers."

He shook his head. "No. I know you are happy with your work, but I want to have the time to write. My head is filled with poetry and philosophy that I want to put down on papyrus. I was hoping to find work as a teacher."

"Well," Roshan's father scratched the small growth of hair on his chin, "The Shahrdar is looking for a tutor for his daughter. You could try working for him."

His eyes widened. Working as a teacher for the city's governor was an ambitious pursuit. He'd thought of tutoring people of his own class, or even of the middle aristocracy. "The Shahrdar?"

"Yes, it is said that he's had trouble finding a suitable tutor for his daughter. You could go to the palace tomorrow and approach him."

He let out a breath. It would be an experience, one he could surely write about and an opportunity he knew he should not let pass. Tonight he'd enjoy the long overdue company of his family, eat and rest. Tomorrow, he'd see the governor and ask about getting a job as a tutor.


	13. The Persian, II

**The Persian, II**

Soroya watched from the stair with a wistful air as the tutors for her younger brothers made their way into the parlor to conduct the daily lessons. Both Jahan and Kaspar had been blessed with tutors their entire lives, as had her older brother, Tallis. While she'd had a tutor in Ctesiphon, in the two years since her father had taken governorship of Herat, her tutors came and went quickly, and finding one to suit her father had been impossible. Her father had high standards when it came to her education, and sometimes that meant she went long periods without one. Tallis, before he'd left to join the military, had taken pity on her and passed on some of his lessons. Since he'd parted a year previously, she'd had four new tutors, each lasting no more than a month and her life had become nearly barren of knowledge, save for a few of her father's texts she read over and over again.

Her father passed her on the stair and sat down next to her. She broke her gaze from the tutors and looked at him. "When am I going to continue my education, father?"

Her father sighed. "I have been searching, Soroya. When I find a tutor of good character and of a wise mind, your education will continue."

Soroya pursed her lips. Her father had been searching for years but no man seemed to have the strength of character her father sought in a tutor. He was not nearly so selective with the tutors for her younger brothers, though she vaguely remembered him being selective with the tutors for her older brother. While her father was an excellent judge of character, sometimes she felt he was being a little too careful. She knew part of the caution lay not only in her sex, but in her age and her apparent beauty, but she had chaperones to watch over her. She frowned. "Jahan's and Kaspar's education has never stopped and they don't even appreciate it."

"Jahan and Kaspar are too young to appreciate it, but they will. At twelve and fourteen, one doesn't realize what one is being given."

"Was it that way with me, father? Did I not appreciate my education at Kaspar's age?"

Her father smiled, putting an arm around her and drawing her into his side. "No Soroya, flesh of my flesh, you were always different. You always wanted to learn, and your pursuit of knowledge deserves only the best. It is why I ask you to wait. You will be responsible for the spread of knowledge and wisdom and only the most cultivated of minds should cultivate yours. I promise I am searching. I could never deny you anything."

She gave her father a soft smile. "Mother thinks I should marry before I lose my bloom."

"I know," her father sighed. "Perhaps you should soon, if you find a man worthy of you, but not just yet. You are only seventeen, still young with much to learn. If I had the time, I'd teach you myself."

"But you are a busy man. You have a territory to govern," she replied softly.

"Yes, and I have to see that the territory is being administered to fairly, so that it remains a stable and just place to live."

"I understand."

"I know. You are a good daughter. Fret not, Soroya; I will find you a tutor." Her father stood, kissing the top of her head. "Now, I have a meeting to attend. I will try to find a moment to see you later."

"Yes father," she replied, smiling up softly at him before returning her gaze to the parlor where the tutors were now conducting the lessons. She understood her father's carefulness; he'd always been protective of her, but she wanted to learn and she was tired of waiting. She was tired of spending her days wandering around the palace or around the gardens, repeating to herself stories from her youth. She wanted new stories and someone to discuss them with. Letting out a long sigh, she stood and made her way out back, to spend the day as she always did, dreaming of the day when her father would finally find a man to tutor her and praying to Ahura Mazda that tutor would come soon.

*****

The palace was grand and imposing. Four guards stood at the gate, watching over whoever passed by. Roshan, in his humble attire, waited with three of the guards while the fourth went into the palace to inform the Shahrdar of his request. The Shahrdar himself, Ehsan Khorvash, came to the gate and met him, asking that Roshan follow him. Roshan walked beside the governor, down the marble pathway to the palace.

"What's your name?"

"Roshan, sir. My father is Baraz Babak."

"Ah, yes." Roshan thought he saw the governor smile a little as he spoke. "I know of him. He has a fine reputation."

"Thank you, your highness."

"How old are you, Roshan?"

"I am twenty two."

"And you think that at twenty two you have the wisdom required to tutor my daughter?"

"Perhaps and perhaps not," Roshan spoke thoughtfully. "I only know the knowledge I possess and the experiences I've encountered. I hope that they have given me wisdom that I can pass on."

"I see," The governor paused and turned to him. Roshan could feel the governor's eyes studying him. "And you humbly ask for this job, of course?"

"No, your highness. I only ask you take the time to consider me."

"I must admit, I am considering your age."

"If it helps, I'll be reaching my twenty third year soon," he joked, hoping the governor had a sense of humor, for there was no way he could defend his youth.

The governor laughed. "Are you well educated, Roshan?"

"Yes, your highness. I have been raised among scholars."

"You know of Persian history and its glory?"

"Yes."

"And you know the works of Plato and Aristotle?"

"Yes, your highness. Plato is a favorite of mine."

"Mine as well. You speak of your experiences. What could you have possible experienced in your almost twenty three years of life?"

Roshan took a deep breath. "Well, I have just spent the past five years on the trading routes."

The governor raised an eyebrow. "As a caravan trader?"

"No. I traveled from caravan to caravan, wanting to see how they lived, experience what they experienced…"

"Really? I have never heard of a man doing such a thing." Roshan shrugged. The governor continued. "If you didn't trade, how did you pay for food for yourself and keep for your ride?"

"I brought along a sum before I left and it held me for awhile. Later, I acted as a physician and a translator, and at times, a teacher for the traders. Often I rode ahead, scouting various sections for trouble. The traders gave me a small cut of their profits, only enough to subsist."

The governor stared at him. He could almost feel a look of admiration coming from the governor. "You must be a brave and resourceful young man. You learned much from your travels?"

Roshan answered sincerely. "I learned more in those five years than over the course of my life until then."

"I can imagine. How far did you go?"

"As far east as the lands of the Chinese, of silks and porcelains, as far west as Constantinople."

The governor spoke slowly, his eyebrow lifted and his expression was one of intrigue. "You visited Justinian's empire?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me, in terms of culture, which is superior, our empire, or theirs?"

Roshan considered the question, thinking of the marvelous buildings and the classical Greek influence within Constantinople, but also of the gardens of his home. It was true that the architecture of Constantinople could, at the moment, be considered superior, Persia's architecture was unique and impressive in its own respect. However, Persia was at the moment attracting scholars, while the Byzantine was not. "Constantinople is a beautiful city, Greek in culture and absolutely splendid, but it is we who are now attracting the greatest minds of the time. Our culture is on the rise, and while I could not fairly judge whether or not it is superior, in my opinion, it is at the very least, equal."

The governor smiled. "You are a wise young man, Roshan. Let me take you to the one you will be tutoring. Are you able to start today?"

Roshan stared at the governor, almost in disbelief. The governor was smiling and he could scarcely believe the opportunity he was being given. Being employed by the governor meant he only had to take on one student to earn enough to live on. He would have plenty of time for writing. "Yes, of course," he answered, unable to hide the smile making its way across his face.

"Good. Come, follow me."

They began moving again and he followed the governor through the palace, into an open courtyard, through the courtyard, back into the palace, through a hall and finally, back outside into one of the gardens in behind the body of the palace. Roshan stopped suddenly, taking in the splendor of the garden.

At the far end of the garden, Roshan could see the white and yellow jasmine, mingling together, planted in a constructed chaos, organized, yet allowing for the appearance of each flower's freedom. Rows of pines lined the two sides of the garden, perfectly trimmed trees planted in a long column of mulch. Between the pines, there was an abundance of grass, a well manicured lawn of vibrant green. The grass flanked the prominent feature of the garden, a long, marble pool of clear blue water. It was along the edge of the pool that Roshan cast his first glimpse of the Shahrdar's daughter, her fingers running through the water.

"My beautiful treasure, Soroya," the governor stated, adoringly.

At the sound of her name, the girl turned her head and Roshan froze in his place, stunned. He'd expected a child, but this girl was a young woman. She stared at him with wide eyes, a beautiful, deep brown. Her skin was a rich light brown complexion, and her hair was rich, dark and beautiful. She was absolutely breathtaking.

"Soroya, I'd like you to meet Roshan, your tutor. Roshan, my daughter."

Roshan watched as her eyes lit up, a brilliant beautiful dark brown hue, as a smile spread across her face. "Father?"

The governor smiled an identical smile. "Yes, Soroya, this young man is here to tutor you." The young woman stood, running to her father and throwing her arms around her father's neck. The governor, his daughter hanging from him, turned to Roshan. "Soroya has been waiting a long time for another tutor. She is a great lover of knowledge." The governor turned his face back to his daughter, smiling indulgently and giving her a short embrace before stepping out of hers. "Soroya, Roshan has just returned from five years of travel; try not to wear him out too quickly with all of your questions."

The girl blushed, a rosy red that rose up in her cheeks causing Roshan to smile. "I'll try not to, father."

"But you will not promise success. Do try. I'll leave you to it."

Ehsan Khorvash, Shahrdar of Herat, left him with a smile both of understanding and of expectation, compassionate yet stern. It was the cultivated look of a great ruler, of a man one wanted to please and to not let down. Roshan stared at the departing man in awe.

"Your name is Roshan?"

Roshan turned to the young woman and looked away quickly, feeling as though if he held her gaze, he would lose himself in it. "Yes."

"And you're actually here to tutor me?"

He smiled, "Yes."

Soroya bit her lip as though she was trying to stifle a question, but the questions spilled forth anyway. "What did father mean when he said you'd returned from five years of travel? Where did you travel?"

He sat down on the marble of the pool, careful not to sit too close. "Everywhere, along the trade routes, to the far east and to the west."

Her eyes lit up, so dark and beautiful it caused his heart to skip a beat. He looked down into the water, letting himself watch her through the reflection, wondering what it was about her eyes that held him in captivity. As far back as when he first felt the tinglings of attraction for a woman, he'd always found himself drawn to exotic eyes of emerald green. Soroya's eyes were brown, and yet, their depths held him in complete surrender. Through the reflection in the pool he could see her smile. "That's incredible. You must tell me all about it."

He could, he thought, but he decided to tell her little by little, hoping he could keep her interested. "It's a long story for just one day."

Her eyes dimmed and he risked looking up at her. "But I want to know."

He smiled softly. "You will. I propose we make a deal. We'll study for a couple of hours and then you can ask me a question about my travels and I will spend the remaining time answering that question and telling you a piece of my story."

Soroya's smile lit back up. "Alright."

"Good. Now, what do you want to learn?"

He didn't know what he'd expected to come from such a question, but he certainly was not prepared for her answer. Her eyes glowed as she responded.

"Everything."


	14. The Persian, III

**The Persian, III**

Soroya fell backwards onto her bed, her mind spinning from the afternoon's events. She had a tutor, and what a tutor. He was younger than any of her previous tutors, but he'd lived so much more. He was intelligent and exciting and patient. She loved that he was patient, that he took the time to answer all of her questions as best he could without becoming exasperated by the volume of them. No, rather than becoming short or annoyed, he seemed to encourage her questions, letting them guide the afternoon of learning.

She flopped over on her bed, turning onto her stomach and resting on her elbows. Sleep, at that moment, was not an option. She felt…over stimulated, absolutely charged with energy and knowledge and something else that had her heart beating rapidly. Maybe it was his eyes, the strange blueness of them and the way those deep blue orbs stared into hers before Roshan would abruptly look away. Or, the way his eyes sparkled when he smiled and answered each of her questions. Perhaps it was his dark locks and the way they curled up, giving his handsome face a look of boyishness. It could be his lips, she thought, the way the words sounded as they left his mouth or the way his smile was always closed-mouthed, but always gentle and always reaching his eyes. Whatever it was, she'd never met anyone like him. He had her mind spinning, her heart beating and her stomach doing somersaults.

There was a knock on her door and she smiled. It would be her father coming to wish her a good night. She rolled onto her side. "You can enter."

Her father opened the door and stood in the doorway. She watched as he smiled, entering the room. "How was your afternoon of tutoring? Was he a good tutor or should I begin searching for another?"

Soroya beamed. "Oh, father, he was wonderful. He let me lead the conversations to the areas I wanted to go and he answered every question I had, patiently and thoughtfully. He is brilliant and interesting. He's experienced so much. Did you know that he traveled with the caravans along the trade routes?"

"Yes, he has told me of it." Her father gave her a small, indulgent smile, and then turned serious. "I hope that is not where you led the conversation all afternoon."

She blushed, remembering how she'd wanted to lead it there, unsuccessfully shaping some of her questions in hopes that Roshan would give her little anecdotes of his travels. "No father, that was one place he would not let me lead him to until the end. He has promised to tell me a little of his travels each day, at the end of each session only."

"Good. I expect it will be a test of your own patience."

"I am not impatient," she replied, frowning and sitting up in her bed.

Her father chuckled. "You are, daughter. You are curious and impatient, not only wanting the answers, but wanting them now. I grant that you are more than willing to search for answers on your own and you will put in a great deal of time to do so, but if the answers do not come, you get upset. You like searching for the answer in a puzzle, but you don't like waiting to hear the puzzles and you don't like having a story dangled in front of you without being able to hear that story immediately. I suspect that being forced to wait to hear that young man's tale will be a lesson in patience."

"I have waited patiently for a tutor."

"That you have, Soroya," her father responded softly, walking over to her and kissing the top of her head. He bent down and kneeled in front of her. "Do you see now how such patience can be rewarded?"

"Yes, father."

Her father stood again. "Goodnight, Soroya."

"Goodnight, father."

She watched as her father walked over to the door, closing it behind him as he left. She laid back down onto her bed, rolling onto her back and staring up at the rich canopy of colors above her. One sleep and she would see Roshan again, if only she could fall into that blissful slumber. She was still too giddy and too full of anticipation, too excited for another afternoon of tutoring, of him and of hearing more of his story.

Soroya closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. After her lids had fallen gently over her eyes, she began to dream despite her wakefulness. She saw how his face reflected in the pool, kind and tender, thoughtful and intelligent, his dark, curly locks and deep blue eyes. She saw her own face, her reflection next to his, the profile of his reflection gazing at hers. She could hear his voice, responding to each of her questions. Soroya sighed, curling onto her side. One sleep. She only had to wait for it to come.

*****

His father and mother were watching him carefully throughout the evening. He'd told them he received the job as the governor's daughter's tutor, but he had said no more, going about his business as though it was just another day and inadvertently piquing his parents' curiosity in the process. Every so often, he'd find them staring at him and exchanging looks between them. After catching them exchanging yet another look between them, he sighed. "The afternoon went very well. I think I shall be very happy to work for the governor. Anything else?"

His father smiled. "No, son."

Roshan nodded and kissed his mother goodnight. "I think I will try to get some sleep so that I can wake up early and begin writing."

"Goodnight, Roshan."

"Goodnight."

The next morning he woke, having had little sleep after a night spent thinking of his new job and his student. Soroya was curious and challenging, inquisitive, intriguing, intelligent, animated and eager to learn. And, she was beautiful. The vision of her running her fingers through the warm water of the pool, her soft features and delicate smile, had not left him throughout the night. Shaking his head, telling himself it wasn't wise to think of such a high member of the aristocracy in any intimate way, he picked up a quill and began writing on a length of papyrus.

Hours passed and he became immersed in his writing, but when the time came to head over to the palace, he automatically felt it and he quickly finished writing his thought. He quickly looked over what had been written and stood, putting away his materials and heading out the door.

The Shahrdar met him by the gate with a smile. "Roshan, Soroya tells me that she enjoyed her tutoring yesterday. She tells me that you allowed her to direct the learning."

Roshan studied the governor, seeing only a genuine smile. "Yes, your highness. She had so many intelligent questions it was easy to follow her to the areas she wanted to cover."

"Good. That is good. She also tells me that you promised her to tell a little of your travels after each session."

"Yes, sir, but if you rather I didn't…"

"No…no, Roshan, I like that you give her something to look forward to, but that you also make her wait, giving her only a little at a time. It will teach her patience. Just try not to make you travels sound to exciting, lest she get it into her mind to try the journey herself." The governor paused to chuckle. "When my eldest son, Tallis, decided to join the military, Soroya was close to going with him, having heard from him about the many female leaders in the military. It took only a little convincing to stop her from going, but only because she wanted the adventure without having to witness the bloodshed."

Roshan smiled, shaking his head. After only one afternoon with Soroya, he already knew how the light hit her eyes when she thought of adventure. It was the same light that hit her eyes when he led her to answer her own questions. "I will make it a point to emphasize the hardships, your highness."

"Thank you, Roshan." The governor turned to him. "Tell me, apart from tutoring my daughter, what do you do? You traveled the trade routes to learn, so I assume you must write."

"Yes, sir. Tutoring your daughter, though already rewarding, is to be able to live, while writing is the life."

The governor smiled. "Soroya is waiting in the study. One of the servants will lead you to her."

"Thank you."

The governor gave him a parting smile and turned. Roshan continued on into the palace, a servant immediately leading him to Soroya.

She was hunched over a table, reading a book when he entered. He smiled. "Good afternoon."

Soroya lifted her head, her eyes shining as she returned his smile. She closed the book. "Good afternoon, Roshan."

He took a seat across from her. "What are you reading?"

"_The Republic_, by Plato. Father had it translated into Persian."

"Ah, then, would you like our session to be focused on ethics?"

He watched as she shook her head. "Ethics is something father and I discuss often. He is very concerned with justice and with ethics."

"You father is a wise man. So, if it is not ethics, what would you like to discuss?"

"My father told me once, Plato wrote about a lost civilization, but father has not yet had the work translated. Do you know it?"

"Plato's _Timaeus, _yes. It tells the story of Atlantis."

Soroya's eyes lit up so brightly, Roshan had to look away. "You know it, then?"

"Yes. I've read it."

"You have? In what language?"

He lifted his face to hers again. "In Greek."

"You know Greek?"

"I can read Greek."

"How many languages do you know?"

Roshan looked at her, his expression soft. "A few, but those are stories for later, Soroya. Let me first tell you Plato's story of Atlantis."

She smiled. "Yes, but not here. Let us go out to one of the gardens and sit upon the grass as we did yesterday." Soroya stood up and he followed her to another garden, this one much smaller and without a pool. Instead, there was a circle of trees sheltering the garden. Inside the trees, red jasmines circled around a patch of green grass. It was small and intimate and very beautiful.

Soroya sat down, curling her legs to one side. Roshan sat facing her, careful to remain a safe distance away. As she sat quietly, he told her of Atlantis, of the story that had passed through Solon, of the advanced architecture and engineering, of the canals that circled throughout the capital and the water that was available indoors. He watched her as he spoke of the art the people of Atlantis created, the golden statue of Poseidon inside the temple of Poseidon. She was still silent as he spoke of the people, of how they were a peaceful people, of the high status enjoyed by women, much like the society they lived in, and of how the people grew corrupt and the island was destroyed, both by a violent shaking of the land, and of the sea, swallowing up the island.

Her questions the day before had challenged him and intrigued him. Watching her listen quietly and intently, her face soft and beautiful, her eyes dancing, as he told her the story, absolutely beguiled him. He watched as her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips when he finished the story and he waited for a question, but none came. She remained silent, looking down at the grass, her fingers picking blades of grass out of the ground and dropping them. She looked up at him, her eyes gazing deep into his. He was held captive by them, unable to look away until she did, watching as she turned her head to the side, dropping her eyes back to the grass.

"No questions?" he asked gently. She shook her head. Against his better judgment, he shifted closer. "Did you not like the story?"

"No, I did." Her face lifted to his, and he could see her sincere expression. "It was wonderful."

"Oh," he paused, not knowing what else to say. "Well, we can end the session here. Now, you asked about the languages I know…"

"No!" she stopped him, placing a hand on his arm. The touch had been light, but it sent a powerful surge through him. He stared at her as she quickly withdrew her hand. Her voice grew quiet. "Can I ask another question instead?" He nodded.

"When you left for your journey…five years ago…when you were my age, who did you leave behind?"

"My parents and my older brother."

"And that is all?"

"Yes."

"Did you miss them?"

"Yes. It is very hard to be away from the ones you love for a long time."

"Yes, I know. I miss my older brother terribly. What…uh, did you do for companionship?"

Roshan thought he saw a blush cross her face. He smiled, thinking back to some of the people he met on the caravans. "Some of the traders made good companions."

"Were any of them female?"

"The traders?" She nodded. He thought back to the governor's words earlier, wondering if Soroya was thinking about embarking on her own adventure. "Not on any of the caravans that I saw. It was quite dangerous. There were bandits, and a traveling woman would be in even more danger than any of the men. Closer to the major centers, I saw a few women traders."

"And that is all the women you saw?"

Roshan studied her, his face serious. "No, I saw many women at the caravanserais, working in the brothels, but that is no life for a woman, pleasuring weary men as they passed through."

He watched her nod, biting her lip. "Do you miss it?"

"What?"

"Traveling the route, your companions, the excitement," her voice grew softer, trailing off, "the visits to the brothels…"

Roshan shook his head. "No. I leant a great deal and met many people, but the routes could be very cold, bitingly so, and very lonely. The traders were merely acquaintances. I stayed not long enough with any caravan to become close acquaintances with any person and," he paused, catching Soroya's eyes and holding them, lowering his voice, "I never found it in myself to take the pleasure of visiting any of the brothels."

"Oh…good…I mean…"

"Perhaps I should go," he spoke softly as he stood, though he wanted nothing more than to feel her hand on his arm again, stopping him. The hand never came. Soroya only nodded from her place on the grass.

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes, Soroya" he answered, caressing her name as it left his lips. A small smile crossed his face. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."


	15. The Persian, IV

**The Persian, IV**

Every day passed by as had the last. He would come to the gate and the Shahrdar would meet him. The Shahrdar would ask him a question or two and he'd respond. Then, the Shahrdar would leave him and he'd be on his way to meet Soroya.

Each day he met Soroya in the parlor and each day she'd lead him out to one of the palace's gardens, where they would be alone, surrounded by palms, pines, willows, water and walls. She would choose what she wanted learn, asking questions as the lesson went by. Afterwards, she would sit quietly as he told her a story of his travels. Every day she would surprise him, offering insight and challenging him in a way no person had before. She was bright and sharp and he loved watching her mind work through a dilemma or a riddle he would pose. She treated everything he said seriously, thinking about each of his questions and working to solve them as though they were puzzles. Roshan found he loved teaching her as much as he loved writing. The time in between tutoring sessions seemed long and the nights longer as his feelings deepened and he began to long for her in his absences from her.

Tutoring Soroya became a way to be close to her. He could watch her pensive look as her mind worked through something, see her laughed when he relayed an amusing anecdote, smile at her when she asked yet another question and gaze at her when she sat quietly and thoughtfully, staring at the ground as he told her another story of his travels. It was a way to gain intimacy with her when he reminded himself that he could never be intimate with her.

One week into tutoring her and Roshan couldn't imagine his life as any other way. He worried their time together would come to an abrupt end, Soroya either choosing to leave and embark on her own journey or choosing to marry, or the governor deciding that he was not a good enough tutor for the daughter of a governor, wanting a man with more wisdom and more experience that Roshan, barely out of his youth, could possess. Though he genuinely liked the Shahrdar and found the Shahrdar to be a wise and just man, Roshan questioned the governor's inquiries each day. Each question felt as though it was a test. Normally such tests would not trouble him, but his time with Soroya was at stake. When the governor intercepted him yet again, Roshan prepared himself to accept whatever came his way. He greeted the governor with a smile. "Good afternoon, your highness."

"Please, Roshan, I've asked you to call me Ehsan."

"And I have told you that I cannot."

The governor laughed. "As you wish." Roshan watched as the governor paused before speaking. "Roshan, where do you live?"

"In town, with my parents."

"And you are happy there?"

"I am comfortable. It is only until I can build my own place."

"Where you can work and write."

"Yes," he answered softly, though he was also thinking of a place where he could build a family.

"Roshan, I'd like to offer you something, though you are free to refuse. I'd like to offer you a place here. Apart from the hours you tutor my daughter, your time would be your own. No one will bother you. You can write or leave the palace and see your parents at your pleasure. Our stable boy will take care of your horse, our cook, your meals, and so on. I will not deduct wages, but ask only that you give Soroya another hour of your time each morning. It will be quiet here and any materials you need to write will be yours."

Roshan stared at the governor. Daily he'd prepared himself to accept that he was not the tutor the governor wanted for Soroya, nor was he what Soroya needed and now, the governor was offering him a place to live and a chance to prolong his time with Soroya.

"Would that be something that would be pleasing to you? Would you consider it?"

He thought of Soroya and how near he'd be. Jut feeling her presence near him could be enough to keep him content. He'd have to be careful with his feelings and his desires, but he could not turn down an opportunity both to be living in a quiet place where he could work and to be staying near to her. "Sir, my answer is yes. It would please me very much."

"Good." The governor smiled, wide and full, eyes shining with delight. "Good, it would please me as well. I'll make the arrangements and speak to you later. Soroya is waiting in the parlor."

Roshan returned the governor's smile and walked towards the parlor. Soroya was sitting at a table, tapping her fingers on the hard wood. She looked endearing and Roshan had to remind himself to keep his distance. This new proximity to her, living in the same palace as her, could be very dangerous. "Good day, Soroya."

Soroya smiled up at him, her eyes dancing. "Roshan."

He sat across from her and watched her fidget. "It's stuffy in here. Let's go out to one of the gardens."

Again he warned himself to keep his distance. The gardens were too sheltered and the temptation too great. Every afternoon he found himself drifting towards her in one of the gardens. "How about the courtyard?"

Soroya appeared to turn the idea over in her head. She frowned then agreed. He followed as she took a seat at one of the courtyard's tables. "What did you want to discuss today? Should we move from Greece, onto Rome, perhaps talk about Virgil?"

"Not just yet. Let's stay with Greece."

"You are a lover of stories. How about Ovid? A Roman relating stories of Babylonian, Greek and Roman mythology?"

"How about Homer?"

Roshan sighed. He loved to discuss Greece but he felt as though Soroya could stay with the Greeks forever. The Shahrdar was deeply influenced by the Greeks, Roshan was aware of it and he wondered if Soroya's influence stemmed from her father. "If not Rome, then Persia. Your father wanted us to get into Persian history."

"Yes I know, but I know Persian history. I've spent years learning of it and I know that Persia is now trying to revive itself of its former glory, but the ideal is still Greece. The greatest thought to come into the world stems from the writers of Classical Greece."

Roshan smiled. "Though their influence was great and should be much admired, you do know the Greeks were not without their faults."

"I know. Their faults were great, but we are not without our faults either."

"No, but what is happening in Persia today, is the blending of Greek with Persian. Some are trying to obliterate Greek influence, but others, such as your father, are using Greek influence and blending it with Persian culture to create something great. You are fortunate to live in this society. I would think that it would be the ideal society for you." He paused, searching for a way to make his point. His eyes fell on a chess board, the figures of etched marble gleaming in the sun. "Do you play chess?"

Soroya raised a brow. "Yes."

"Good. Come play with me. If I win, we talk about Persian history. If you win, we will stay a little longer in Greece."

They moved to the table where the chess board sat. Roshan picked up one of the marble pieces and held it in his hand. "This game is symbolic of our culture, just as games of sport and gymnastics are symbols of the Greek. You know that we, the Persians of the Eranshahr, invented chess and so it is a reflection of our society. It is a game of strategy. It shows the importance of thought, just as we value thought. It demonstrates the importance of every man, just as every piece on the chess board is important. All men have their roles, just as the pawn, the rook and all the other pieces have theirs. Each piece, in the right situation is equally dangerous, thus each piece should be respected." He moved one of the pawns two spaces forward. "Now, what is the most powerful piece on the board?"

Soroya smiled and picked up a marble pawn, moving it ahead two spaces. "The Queen."

"Exactly. When playing chess, one must respect the Queen. One must respect the power the Queen possesses. When the King falls, the game is over, but it is the Queen we often watch out for and it is the Queen that we use as our greatest weapon. In Persia, we respect the woman and the power and wisdom of the woman. She has the same rights as man, holds the same power as man and is valued in society the same as the man. If this were a Greek game, the Queen would be hidden away, not capable of any great power. Even Plato and his Utopian ideals did not take the woman into account." Roshan looked over the board, examining it before making another move.

"What about the Greek goddess, Athene, the goddess of wisdom, or of Penelope? They were figures that commanded the greatest respect." Soroya moved another piece.

He studied Soroya's move. "In a few instances, the woman was seen as a force, but mostly women were portrayed to be the downfall, or not thought of at all. The Gods were as fallible as humans. Now, I know you are of the Zoroastrian faith, so I will compare our God with the Gods of Archaic and Classical Greece. Look at Ahura Mazda in opposition to the Gods of Greece. Ahura Mazda created truth and order. Our religion is based not on different Gods for different vices and virtues. While those Gods of Greece were animated characters, they were often the cause of chaos. Our religion is based upon good thoughts, words and deeds to protect us from chaos." He moved his first pawn forward.

"And I thought you respected all religions." Soroya moved another piece.

"I do, just as I respect all cultures. My point was that our religion is a reflection of our culture. We worship truth and order. Out of Greece came great thought, but the blending of that thought and that culture with our own is what makes Persia great. We share thought and ideas with the Byzantine. Eranshahr is the society flowering now and in time, when our civilization diminishes in greatness as all civilizations do, another civilization will look back at ours with reverence." He took a little more time to study the board, and then moved another pawn.

Soroya took his pawn and grinned up at him. Her grin lost its luster quickly as move by move he trapped her, placing her in check mate. Soroya frowned. "That was quick. Only my father beats me this handily."

He smiled softly. "Patience, Soroya. You are intelligent, but impatient. Study the board; see all of the moves and the consequences of each one. You need not take all of my pieces at once. The goal is the outcome and each move is a step towards that outcome, whether it be favorable or not. You move too quickly."

"My father says the same thing."

Roshan grinned. "Then it must be true. I know your mind is capable of more. The board is like a puzzle. Weigh every move and be patient; the right move will come to you. One day we'll play again. Take your time and I have no doubts that you will offer me a more worthy challenge. Now, I believe we were about to discuss Persian history."

*****

She fell in love with him over a story. Before he'd related Plato's story of Atlantis, she'd been intrigued by him, in admiration of him and perhaps even a little infatuated with him. When he began to speak of a lost people, his soft cadence, his beautiful narrative, the passion in his voice and reverence in his tone, she was lost, transfixed by his voice and his eyes. Every word that left his lips had been uttered with the greatest care, as though each one had been carefully chosen. It didn't take the story of his life to glimpse at his mind or at his passions. It took a story. Every story since, his own, or a story of Greece or Rome, Ancient Babylon or contemporary Persia, and she'd fallen deeper.

It wasn't only his stories and the way he told them. It was the way he gazed at her as he told one, and then looked away quickly when she caught him gazing. It was the soft smile that would play across his face when he caught her gazing at him. It was his touch. Though they'd only touched a few times, a hand on his arm, an accidental brush of the back of his hand on hers, each touch sent shivers up her spine, causing her to withdraw quickly and yet immediately yearn to touch him again.

Soroya glanced around the courtyard, sighing. She'd wanted to take him out to one of the gardens, where they could be alone. His voice, utterly beautiful, as he spoke of Persia, again held her captive in its reverential lilt. She was in awe of him. Though she'd heard of Persia's colorful history many times before, it wasn't until the words came from him that she actually felt the richness. She began asking questions, some out of curiosity, others as a way to prolong their session, though with the chess game, their time was already running longer than normal. When Roshan mentioned the Persian garden as the epitome of paradise, she stopped him. "Roshan, wouldn't your point be better made if we were in the garden?"

He glanced at her and she held his eyes. She could see the debate raging within them. She knew if she looked away, her chance would be lost, so she kept her gaze locked on his, not wavering. "Yes," he answered softly, "I suppose it would be."

She smiled and led him out to a garden she'd not yet taken him too. It was her favorite garden, a haven she felt was placed there just for her and one she would only share with him. Her haven was small, though not the smallest of the palaces numerous gardens. Along the four stone walls, a row of palms surrounded the garden. Inside the palms, rather than flowers, a long, narrow marble fountain formed a square around the interior of the garden. Every yard, crystal clear water sprayed upwards about a foot. In one corner, the water cascaded down into a small pool. In another corner, a simple stone carving of a palm tree rested against the marble. There were few flowers, but inside the rectangular garden, plenty of grass. Soroya heard Roshan's breath catch as he entered her heaven. She glanced back at him, "The epitome of paradise, I think you said?"

His eyes were on her. "Yes."

Inside she swooned. She held his gaze, feeling a warm sensation run through her. Her legs felt as though they were about to give way under her. Roshan coughed and broke the gaze. He walked past her. "Water, the most important element in the garden."

She stood behind him. "Here, the display perfect enough to surround a fire temple." From behind him she watched him nod. She spoke softly. "Of all the gardens that surround the palace, this is my favorite."

"It is beautiful. The importance of water displayed in harmony with the importance of trees."

"Respect both, for they each play their role."

"Water to keep the land fertile, trees to shade it from the hot sun." Roshan was still gazing forward, his eyes on the beauty of the garden. Soroya stepped beside him, her bare arm brushing along his. She froze, wanting to entwine their dangling fingers together. One of her fingers grazed across his. He stepped back and faced her, his eyes wide and uncertain. She watched as he cleared his throat. "I don't think we need to talk about the importance of the garden."

"No, I suppose my father has passed on his reverence of the garden."

"Then, perhaps we end it here. If you'd like, you can have your time to ask me of my travels."

She nodded and slid down until she was seated on the grass. She fixed her skirt and smoothed it over her legs. He sat across from her and she could see his eyes following her hand's movements. He looked away, his eyes wandering back over the garden.

"Roshan, what it the most beautiful place you've been?"

His eyes landed back on her. "Here."

Soroya smiled. "Apart from here. You must have been to many beautiful places."

"Some."

"Tell me about them."

"Well, a lot of my journey took place in the dessert where images of water appeared only to disappear as we neared. Most of the traders were riding Bactrian camels whose two humps stored a lot of water, so the traders did not have to worry about water for their animals. As I only road Atefeh, my horse, a lot of my time was spent worrying about her. It is hard to see the beauty in a place when you are thirsty and worried about the health of your animal."

"Your horse's name is Atefeh?"

"Yes."

"Affection."

"Yes. I have a strong affection for her."

"And when you were not worried about water for her?"

Roshan smiled. "I was able to enjoy the beauty of my surroundings. The Far East was beautiful, lush with trees. Each oasis we stopped at was very much a sight for my eyes, but mostly because of relief. Babylon, Alexandria and Constantinople were all very beautiful. Of all the cities I traveled to, Constantinople was my favorite."

"Tell me about it."

His eyes took on a far off look. Roshan was utterly beautiful, sitting on the grass across from her, a tender expression on his face. It was in these moments she felt most consumed by her growing feelings for him.

"Constantinople is very Greek in style. It has a beautiful, classical look. The city was stunning, but what was most impressive was the Hagia Sophia. Gazing at the interior of the Christian basilica was a wondrous thing. The architects Justinian hired to rebuild the church spared no expense in creating a building unequal in splendor. There are so many different colors inside. It was a creation of beauty, rich in art and absolutely breathtaking."

Soroya smiled wistfully, longing to see that beauty and more, to see it with him. Through his eyes, she felt the splendor of the building. She looked up from the grass to see Roshan gazing at her. He looked away again, staring forward. "Of the beauty that I saw there and the beauty I saw elsewhere during my travels, none of it compares to the beauty I have found here."

Her face shot to him, studying him, but he was still looking forward. She wanted to believe he wasn't only speaking of the garden or of Herat. While the garden was beautiful, surely it alone could not compare to the Hagia Sophia? His hand brushed against hers and she stilled, breathing in deeply. The gesture was simple and could have been accidental, yet his hand lingered and it felt as though he was trying to convey something. His words were not meant for the garden alone. Her little finger curled around his and he held it there, his little finger moving only enough to sweep along hers.

Roshan stood quickly, dropping her finger. He looked down at her, shock in his eyes. "I had better go. I have much to do this afternoon. I will see you in the morning."

Disappointment coursed through her. She wanted to reach up and pull him back down. Instead she looked at him with confusion. "The morning?"

"Yes. Your father offered me a place here to work and live in exchange for an extra session of tutoring you in the morning."

The rhythm of her heart's beat increased in pace. Roshan was going to live in the palace. He would be so near and she would have more time with him. She smiled widely, bursting from within. "Tomorrow morning, then."


	16. The Persian, V

**The Persian, V**

The last night he spent in his parents' home, he laid awake and thought of Soroya. The next morning, he rose and found his mother sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes rimmed red from a night spent weeping the same tears she'd shed five years before when he first left his home. Roshan sat down across from her, eating the meal she'd prepared. He finished his breakfast and placed his hand over his mother's. "I'll still see you almost every day, mother. I'll come by here and you can visit the palace. The Shahrdar has even offered to have me show you and father the gardens any day you like."

"Roshan, do not be wooed by the riches and splendor of the palace. Do not change who you are."

"I'm not; I won't; I promise. Living there will be more convenient, mother. I will be tutoring Soroya twice a day. The Shahrdar has also offered me a quiet place to rest and to work. The streets of Herat are noisy, but the palace is quiet."

"You are sure about this? You aren't only telling yourself this?"

"It is not about riches or splendor, mother. I've asked the Shahrdar to keep my accommodations simple. I will not forget myself, nor will I forget to visit often." He smiled and patted his mother's hand, watching as her mouth turned up in her own soft smile.

Minutes later, a pair of servants from the palace arrived to help Roshan with his things. Roshan took a deep breath and wiped a tear from his mother's eye. He shook his father's hand and picked up a bundle of food his mother had prepared for prepared for him to take with him to the palace. After one last glance back at the home he was raised in, he followed the governor's servants to his new residence.

Roshan's room on the second floor of the palace though small, was still larger than the room he'd grown up in. The governor made good on his promise, keeping the room simple and providing Roshan with a quiet sanctuary to work in. Inside the room, Roshan had only a bed, a dresser and a desk. Placed on the desk were two piles of papyrus and an assortment of writing materials. The desk sat near a window, letting light filter into the room and offering Roshan the opportunity to gaze out into one of the gardens below. Many evenings he sat, writing and looking out onto the garden, inspired both by the beauty of the garden and the beauty that strolled through the garden each night, unaware of his eyes on her.

When he first saw her silhouette in the moonlight, he thought it would be a distraction. It proved the opposite. He was inspired. Words flowed out of him and onto his pages. When he glanced at her in the moonlight, poetry flowed from him, couplets and verses of love finding their way onto the papyrus. The sight of her did not distract him from other subjects either, for he would gaze at her and remember a conversation they had about his journeys. Everything seemed highlighted in her presence.

Living in the palace proved to have many advantages. Apart from that double-edged proximity to Soroya, there was also the valuable proximity to the Shahrdar. Roshan genuinely liked the governor. When the governor was around and not busy, Roshan would play chess with the governor, the two men often exchanging victories. The governor also invited him to play polo, and though he'd never played before, Roshan found the sport much to his liking. Five years of riding the Silk Road and his mastery of and close relationship with his horse gave him a quick advantage and made him a worthy competitor. Despite the increased activities, Roshan was still able to visit his parents often. Every other moment of his time was spent enjoying his two favorite pursuits, tutoring Soroya and writing.

The downfall of living in the palace, of course, was being so near Soroya and knowing he could never really have her. Every moment with her was temptation. She continued to challenge him and blow him away with her insight. Their sessions continued to take place in the private gardens, where he found himself gravitating towards her, the pull to be as close to her as possible stronger than his ability to resist. He tried to keep a safe distance away, reminding himself that she was a princess and he, only a Azatan, a member of the aristocracy, but low aristocracy, classes below her and not suitable to court her, but, every time they touched, something would spark in him and it would become impossible to move away. He was held captive by her. Everything about her, her questions, her soft voice, her wide eyes full of curiosity and wonder, the beautiful lines of her body, her touch, was breaking him down. It was painful to love someone so absolutely and not be able to experience it, nor be able to escape from it. It was painful to be near her, longing for her, yet infinitely more painful to be away from her. When he closed his eyes at night, she was all that he saw. Even when placed in the most breathtaking background, the background would fade away until there was only her.

He prayed for the strength to resist, but as he followed Soroya into her favorite garden one morning, he found that strength wavering once again. They hadn't been in that garden since that afternoon where they'd entwined their little fingers together and let their attraction run through them. Roshan gazed at Soroya as she took a seat on the grass.

Soroya was quiet. A thoughtful, pensive, yet unsure expression played across her face as she ran her hands through the grass. He gazed down at her and took in her beauty, trying to memorize it as he'd memorized how she'd looked in every moment he'd spent with her before. He memorized the way she gazed down at the grass, her eyes lost to her thoughts, her soft features and delicate arms supporting the weight of her upper body. She was breathtaking.

Roshan sat down next to her, only a sliver of air between them, drawn right into her. His hand landed next to hers and even though they weren't touching, he could feel the energy gap the space between them. He gazed at her, her face still angled forward, staring at the grass. He wanted to speak, to say something, but words were lost. He was lost in her. "What," he tried, clearing his throat and finding it painfully dry. "What did you want to learn today?"

Soroya's head lifted and her eyes met his. She was silent for a moment and he waited, his stomach knotting. Then, so soft and almost pleading, her voice let out a whisper. "Teach me about love."

A small gasp escaped his mouth as she whispered those words. The air was thick between them. It was everything he'd wanted to hear, everything he'd ever fantasized about and everything he'd been afraid of. He studied her, holding her eyes and searching for something to indicate that all she wanted was a parable or a poem about love, something intellectual to debate. Yet, he knew he would not find such a sign. He knew what she wanted. He'd known for some time, and now, her eyes were pleading for it.

Roshan swallowed and glanced around the small garden, searching for somebody he knew was not there. They were alone, surrounded by palms and fountains, a rock carving in one corner and a small pool in another. He glanced back at Soroya, her eyes still on him and he was drawn into her, not able to summon any resistance. He moved his hand to her forearm, grasping it lightly above the wrist. His thumb glided over her soft skin. He licked his lips and whispered softly, "Are you sure?"

*****

His touch on her arm was dizzying. Her heart stopped beating. "Are you sure?" The words were soft and his warm breath on her skin left her lightheaded. All she could do was nod. She'd been wanting and waiting for him to touch her, to kiss her, to love her almost since she met him. He was such a beautiful man, the scholar, the philosopher, wise and young and handsome, challenging her. When he looked at her, butterflies took up residence in her stomach. Oh, she was sure. She nodded again.

Roshan's hand slid up her forearm, pausing below her elbow. His thumb brushed along the inside, sweeping back and forth, a soft grazing in the crook of her elbow that caused her to suck in a breath. An incredible, warm feeling passed through her, settling between her legs. Never having felt such a strong reaction to anyone's touch before, she equated the feeling with a deep, intense desire.

Roshan moved to his knees, facing her. His hand moved up her arm and she stilled, unable to move. The hand reached the cuff of her sleeve, just below her shoulder, lingering while his thumb brushed over her collar bone and sending her senses reeling. His hand continued to move, up her neck, his thumb tracing her jaw. His hand settled on the nape of her neck. She let out the breath she'd been holding since his hand reached her elbow and took another quick breath as he moved forward and kissed her.

Soroya's eyes closed, feeling his lips caress hers. The both rose on their knees as the kiss continued. His lips moved over hers, taking her bottom lip between his. She let out a whimper and melted into him, falling into his arms. He held onto her, lowering her back onto his knees as he sunk back down on his heels. Her hand lifted to his neck, the other to his shoulder, clinging to him so she could hold her body close to his chest as they kissed and kissed. She couldn't get enough of him, of his taste. She couldn't be near enough, lifting her body from the support of his arms and arching into his chest. She wondered where this need came from, but it was strong and wonderful. His lips pried hers open and she gasped into his mouth. She arched into him again, deepening the kiss.

*****

Her body was so soft and pliable in his arms. He was holding her with one arm under her back and the other beneath her shoulder, as her back lay practically across his knees, her own knees bent under her legs. He didn't think about Soroya's possible discomfort, only tried to support most of her weight as he lifted her body to his and kissed her.

She was intoxicating. She smelled of jasmine and tasted of pomegranates. His lips pried hers open and he swept his tongue inside her mouth. Her soft gasp and the way she arched into him and returned the kiss was nearly his undoing. Somehow he managed to keep control, though that control was waning. He broke the kiss, needing a moment before he completely ruined their first time together. Lifting her from his knees, he laid her gently on the grass.

They were both breathing heavy. Roshan hovered over Soroya, catching his breath and giving himself the much needed time to regain control of his body. Slowly, he lay down next to her, placing his hand on her hip. He kissed her lightly, grazing his lips across hers again and again, once…twice…three, four, five, six times over. Her lips were soft and swollen and each time he separated himself from them, Roshan found himself dipping back down to taste them again.

His thumb grazed over her hip bone and he felt her hand land softly on his. She grasped his hand and inched it inward. His eyes widened at her action, but he followed her lead, slowly moving to touch her. His hand stilled and Soroya arched into it, causing a groan to sound from his lips. He stared into her eyes, caressing her cheek with his free hand and rubbing his palm over her, feeling heat and dampness through her dress. His hand cupped her and she whimpered. He searched for a way under her long dress, reaching down and pulling up the intricately woven silk, finding the soft skin of her leg, letting his hand caress it. Soroya jerked suddenly and he pulled his hand away. She rolled onto her back, taking his hand and placing it over the clasp in the back. Slowly, he peeled the dress from her, running his hand along her perfectly curved spine. His hand moved between her shoulder blades, then across to her shoulder. He rolled her back over and stared down at the beauty beneath him.

Roshan moved his hand to touch her again. One hand fell lightly onto one of her breasts while the other traveled back to between her legs, touching her without the silk barrier between them. Soroya moaned and he dropped his face to hers, kissing her again. He pulled back and stood up, removing his own clothing, his jacket, his belt and the flowing green ribbon attacked to it, his thin silk trousers. He kneeled down beside her and positioned his body so that it was above hers, his weight being supported by his arms. He stared down at her, waiting for her to signal to continue. Her hands came up, one grasping his arm, the other, caressing his cheek, reassuring him. He leaned down to kiss her again and the hand that had been caressing his cheek moved to the back of his head and pulled him in deeper. Almost without his mind's consent, he plunged into her.

*****

Soroya let out a cry of pain, not realizing that it would hurt so much. She stared up at Roshan, noticing his shocked and worried expression. Before he could pull out of her, she moved her hand from the back of his head, letting her fingers drift lightly across his neck. She forced a soft smile, hoping to offer some reassurance. She wanted this. Despite the pain, it felt right. She lifted her head and kissed him again, focusing on the feel of his lips rather than the sharp pain that came with the sinking of him into her.

Roshan smoothed out her hair and continued to kiss her. He hovered above her, staring into her eyes as they both waited for her pain to subside. When she felt ready, she kissed him again and shifted beneath him. His eyes held the question and she nodded. Slowly, he began moving in and out of her, his arms on either side of her head, his face buried in her neck, intermittently placing soft kisses on it. They made love in the garden, shaded by trees and to the sound of water running around them. They were their own fire temple, burning hot. Afterwards, Roshan kissed her gently and lifted himself from her. He handed her, her dress and began putting on his clothing.

Soroya stared at Roshan's back as he dressed. She wondered where his thoughts were, what his feelings were. She felt incredible. Though it hurt to begin with, she'd never felt so good…so whole. Roshan turned to her, his eyes full of regret. "I am so sorry. Soroya, what have we done?"

Soroya scampered towards him, placing a hand on his arm. He looked at her, his eyes wide and sad. "Roshan, I've wanted to feel you, to make love to you almost since I met you."

"I…still…this shouldn't have happened, not like this."

"Why not? Did you not enjoy it?"

She watched the breath leave his body. "No, Soroya, I did. It was wonderful. It was the most amazing feeling I've ever experienced." She smiled. "But I'm supposed to be tutoring you."

The smile may have dropped if the morning hadn't left her with the most incredible learning experience of her life. "You are," she replied cheekily, though she was serious. "Now I know what the physical expression of love feels like."

"Your father isn't paying me to teach you that."

Soroya laughed, shaking her head. "Perhaps not, but you could always stay an extra half hour to make up for the time that we lost."

Roshan let out a small laugh and hearing it, Soroya let a sigh of relief. Then, Roshan turned serious, his eyes moving from the small pool of blood where they'd been lying and back to her. His voice was low and soft. "I hurt you."

She shook her head. "It only hurt for a moment. I wanted it, Roshan. I wanted you."

Roshan stepped towards her. His hand landed on her arm. He turned her to help refasten her dress. His hands moved to her shoulders as he turned her back around. "You are so incredibly beautiful." Both hand moved to her neck and she watched as he dipped down and kissed her. Her eyes closed and she gripped his sides, losing herself in the kiss.

Roshan stepped out of the kiss, dropping his hands to his side. "I don't want this to end," he whispered.

"Then it won't," she returned, softly. She kissed his again before he could say anything. His hands landed on her back, pulling her body into his. She broke the kiss and smiled. "Well, I chose the last subject, so you can choose the next."


	17. The Persian, VI

**A/N: **Sorry about the delay in posting. I guess my delay in getting this out means summer is officially over. I'll try to continue to update as quickly as possible, but it may start to slow down now. Thank you again to everyone who has been reviewing this.

**The Persian, VI**

Despite the quiet of the palace and the near perfect working atmosphere, Roshan felt as though he was getting nothing accomplished in the time between the day's tutoring sessions. He couldn't concentrate. His mind had begun wandering to her almost the instant he sat down at his desk. With his quill hovering over a blank sheet of papyrus, he tried to let his thoughts flow, but it seemed a chore. All he could think about was the feel of her beneath him, the taste of her lips, the beautiful hue of her wide, wondering eyes, her quick, nervous breaths mingling with his, the way she slowly and shyly inched his hand in to touch her and then arched into that touch. He wanted to do it all over again, take his time and really discover her. He wanted to marry her, share his life with her, take her away and show her all of the places he'd spoken about and she wanted to see. He wanted to watch her discover Jiankang and Babylon, Alexandria and Constantinople. He wanted to stand beside her in the middle of the Hague Sophia and stare at the marvelous architecture around them, the marble pillars and golden mosaics. He wanted to cross the waters from Constantinople to Athens and see the city that spawned Socrates and Plato, and after discovering that world together, take her back to Persia and build her a home. He wanted to make her a garden, something simple yet beautiful, something comfortable, a relaxing Eden that she could spend hours in and where they could dream and build a life together. Mostly he wanted to believe it was all possible.

His quill met the papyrus and he began to write, but the words appearing on the page were not the words forming the treatise he'd planned on writing earlier that day. Instead, the words were of his dreams, then the object of his dreams, detailed descriptions of Soroya's form, her lithe, beautiful, supple body, her quivering figure beneath his, vivid expressions of their first time making love together…their first time making love. His quill stopped moving and he stared down at the words. The images of the papyrus were both comfort and torture. He'd gotten to experience her and was reminded of how he could never experience her again. One instinct warned him to destroy the papyrus, lest someone should find it and discover he'd lain with the princess. His mind was telling him that it was the right choice, but there was something else in him, some powerful force arising out of him that told him to hang onto his writings and forever preserve the memory of that beautiful morning. Knowing his memory of that one perfect morning was all he'd be able to take with him, he folded the papyrus and placed a kiss on it, tucking the writings deep within all of his other writings.

Roshan sighed, knowing that trying to write about anything else that morning was a lost cause. Deciding it would be a far better idea to take a walk and clear his head, he stood and tucked his chair back into his desk, exiting the room. Wandering the palace, head down and lost in thought, he failed to notice the Shahrdar coming towards him.

"Roshan."

Hearing his name, Roshan glanced up and watched as the Shahrdar approached. He stopped in his tracks, thinking of all the people he did not want to see in that moment, the Shahrdar was top of the list. Guilt flooded Roshan, battling his longing for Soroya as his primary emotion as he felt he'd betrayed the governor's trust. He wanted to turn and change directions, avoid any painful conversation with the governor, but he remained still, waiting for the governor to stop before him. It was hard to meet the governor's eyes, yet he forced himself to do it, knowing the governor deserved that from him. It was all made so much more difficult when the governor smiled at him, a warm, proud, paternal turning up of the mouth. "Good morning, Roshan."

Roshan took a deep breath. "Good morning, sir."

"Roshan, forgive my abruptness, but what have you done to my daughter?"

He stared at the governor, his eyes furrowed while the governor awaited a response. Roshan swallowed and glanced down at his feet before looking back up at the man he'd been studying. Surely the governor couldn't… The question couldn't stop his heart from racing. "Sir?"

"She gave me quite the chess match yesterday." The governor laughed. "It ended in a stalemate. Now tell me, what have you done?"

Roshan breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. "I only told her to slow down and use her mind and her logic to look ahead."

"I have been telling her that for years, yet until you told her, she still jumped head first into the match. I wish I knew what kind of influence you have over her."

He didn't know what to say. He stared at the governor, trying to come up with some words to explain it. Maybe if the governor knew… Maybe if he could find a way to understand it himself, he could describe the influence he had over Soroya and the influence she had over him. He only knew he was drawn to her, taken with her, and somehow, completely incomprehensible to him, she returned his affections. How do you tell this to her father, the most powerful nobleman in the province? He couldn't, not when telling the governor would mean he'd be risking seeing Soroya ever again.

Soroya appeared some distance behind her father. Roshan, still trying to find words to end this agonizing conversation with her father, spotted her. He couldn't look away. She was watching him from the distance, her eyes, soft, glancing between him and her father. He stared into those eyes, his mind unleashing the naked longing that had given room to guilt earlier. He wondered if that longing, so painfully and acutely aware to him would seep out and make itself known to the governor. He was sure Soroya could see if, for it must mirror the longing he found in her eyes.

"Young man, are you lost in thought?"

Roshan looked back to the governor, waiting as the governor eyed him, the perusal, though soaking with amusement also looked as though it held a little suspicion. Roshan shook his head. "Perhaps a little, sir."

Behind the governor, Soroya disappeared. With her departure, something had vanished within him, leaving only emptiness. He knew then that he could never be without her and he wondered if he could keep up this living so near her and trying to act as though it had no effect on him. They couldn't be together and to even consider asking her to be with him would be to consider asking her to throw away her life and likely her family ties for him. He'd read and heard tales of forbidden love, yet he discovered that to actually live the tale was far more painful than he'd ever imagined. Yet, he couldn't be without her. He had to maintain some distance before they dove into something they could not return from. His love for her had to be stronger than his desire. His respect for the governor had to outweigh his need for Soroya.

The governor was looking at him, studying him. "Roshan, I know it is not my business, but whatever is it you're thinking about, it has you lost in thought. I hope you manage to resolve it."

Roshan carefully met the governor's eyes. "Thank you, sir. I think I have."

"Good." The governor smiled softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I just wanted to let you know, you're doing a fine job, Roshan. I may have doubted your youth to begin with, but you have proven to be a very wise young man with a strong character. I have never seen Soroya so happy."

Just when he thought it could not become any more painful, the governors words managed to twist the rapier that had been lodged in his chest. He walked away without saying anything.

*****

If Soroya had spent the morning reliving that same, agonizing torturous replaying of events as he had, it didn't show. She was her usual self for the afternoon's tutoring, asking him countless questions as they delved into Cicero. 'Why wouldn't she be?' he thought. After all, she was still that girl full of curiosity and wonder, the lover of intelligence and seeker of knowledge. It was easy, their light banter, her soft laughter and the focused exchange of ideas between them as they discussed one of Rome's greatest thinkers. It was only after, when it came time for him to tell more of his story, that the atmosphere changed. Soroya shifted towards him, placing a warm hand on his arm, causing him to shiver.

Roshan stared at the hand before lifting his eyes to her. It was a mistake. As soon as he looked into those deep, imploring eyes, he was lost, at her mercy. He tried to pull his arm away but her fingers curled around it. "Roshan, will you tell me more about the beauty you've encountered?"

He swallowed, attempting to clear his throat. "Sure. Where do you want me to start?"

Soroya shifted closer to him. Her fingers were still curled around his arm, her touch burning through his jacket. She bit the corner of her lip. "If you were to show me one place, where would you take me?"

"Of the places I've been?"

"Yes."

"Constantinople…maybe Jiankang."

"Why?"

"Because they're so different from here and because I think you'd love them. The Far East is so lush and alive. It has these beautiful, rocky mountains that rise out of the green brush and touch the sky. Constantinople, because you are a lover of Classical Greece and Constantinople is so Greek in character. I've never been to Athens, so Constantinople would have to satisfy you."

Her hand slid up his arm, touching the skin on his neck. He sucked in a breath as her fingers played with his soft curls. "Tell me more?" she asked softly.

Roshan closed his eyes, trying to gain control over his body, but his body was rapidly betraying him. She was so close. She smelt so wonderful. Her fingers on his neck were overwhelming his senses. She pressed her lips to his and he leaned forward, deepening the kiss and lowering her to the ground.

Her hand left his neck to help her other hand remove his jacket. He cupped her face, kissing her as she disposed of the jacket. Slowly, he helped her remove her own clothing, following his hands with soft kisses, letting his lips linger on her skin.

She was so soft. How was it possible for a person to be so soft, have such soft, delectable skin? He took his time, his hands running lightly across her skin, learning her body, feeling it, discovering it, kissing his way across it, down across her stomach and back up. Her hands danced across his chest. He kissed her deeply and hovered above her, staring deep into her eyes.

Soroya stared back up at him, her palm on his chest. "Roshan, if you could take me to those places, would you?"

He kissed her again. "In a heartbeat."

"Have you thought about it?"

His forehead fell to hers, his dark curls framing her face. "Every night since I met you."

"Tell me more about them? Tell me what it was like to go and discover those other worlds, that beauty. Tell me what it felt like each time you discovered some place new?"

Roshan smiled. He whispered his story across her skin. His lips grazed softly across her body as he opened up and really let out how it felt to see all of the places he'd seen. He spoke to her of beauty, and then rose up to gaze into her eyes, finding all of the beauty of his journey within her eyes.

Soroya's hands found the waist of his trousers. He helped her divest himself of them, and then slowly entered her, keeping his eyes on hers as they made love a second time that day.

He collapsed above her, kissing her with tears in his eyes, clarity sinking into his. As long as he remained in the palace, he would not be able to stay away from her. She was a magnet and whatever distance he tried to create would be bridged in seconds. He had to leave.

Roshan sunk his face into her neck, whispering in her ear. "I have to leave."

Soroya's hands grasped the sides of his head, lifting it above her. She stared up at him. "What?"

"I have to go. I can't stay here."

Tears filled her eyes. Roshan's heart clenched. Soroya shook her head. "No…why?"

"Because I can't stay away from you."

"You don't have to."

He shook his head, kissing the tears in the corners of her eyes. "I do."

"No, Roshan. Don't go. Please don't go."

He kissed her again, the lightest brush of his lips on hers. Then, he stood and began to dress, his back to her. Soroya pleaded but he forced himself to ignore her pleas.

"Roshan, no."

"I'm sorry, Soroya." He glance back to see her sitting up and holding her skirt over her body. He looked upon her with sadness. "I'll ask your father to begin making arrangements for another tutor."

"Roshan, don't. Please. I love you."

Her words almost knocked him over. It was so hard to remain standing. He stared at her, thinking back to Ovid's tale of Pyramus and Thisbe. Forbidden love only ends in tragedy. A tear ran down his cheek. "I'm sorry," he whispered before he turned and staggered away, his heart breaking as he listened to her sob on the grass behind him.


	18. The Persian, VII

**The Persian, VII**

Soroya crumbled from her seated position to the ground, curling into a little ball. After a few minutes of stunned silence, laying on the cool grass, she began sobbing uncontrollably. How could a few words hurt so badly? How could a few words devastate her the way Roshan's last words had? She'd never thought of him leaving, never considered it. She'd never thought of the intense pain that would come with such a loss. She'd taken little time to consider the nature of their relationship, taking it for granted that he'd be around. Mostly she'd just thought of him and how amazing it felt to be with him, to kiss him. She thought of the way his hand trembled as he touched her and the look in his eyes when he stared down at her, as though he couldn't believe she was letting him touch her. She thought of how incredible that touch felt. She rarely thought of what it all meant. When she let herself think of their relationship, she pictured afternoons of tutoring followed by quiet lovemaking in one of the gardens. She pictured him writing his treatises and establishing himself before the two of them married. Not once did she imagine him leaving. Not once had she prepared herself for the overwhelming, all-consuming pain she'd feel. Now she knew. She found out how intense the pain could be. She discovered how words could break her. She knew what it was to be completely, achingly wounded beyond repair.

She kept clutching at her skirt, sobbing and choking, gasping and sucking in air as though air was in short supply. She couldn't breathe. It hurt to breathe. She had to force the air in. She tried to sit up, but couldn't. Tears streamed from her eyes from some source so deep, it had to have been untapped before. Was this grief…grieving? It couldn't be because she couldn't accept the loss. He couldn't be leaving her. He couldn't. Why? Why did he think he had to stay away from her? She couldn't understand it. He'd left her some time before and she was still on the ground, still nude and clutching her clothing and still pleading with him not to leave.

The words came out in whispers, choked through the tears. She was panting and begging him not to go and he wasn't around to hear her. She didn't know if he'd already left or if she would see him again. He was gone. Her composure was gone. Her tears were so extreme, she wanted to cry out but she couldn't make a sound as silent yells fought to make their way out but died in her throat. Her open mouth choked air back in and again she could mumble and plead to the absent man, begging that he stay. The silence that met her pleas was excruciating.

*****

He stood by his window, watching her silhouette as the moon cast light upon her form in the garden. Her frame dipped to meet a row of flowers and when her hands gently plucked one from the earth, Roshan closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He didn't have the strength to leave her.

Twice he'd had the opportunity to speak with the governor that evening. Twice he stopped by the governor's study, twice he paused by the door and twice he walked away without speaking to the governor. He had to leave. He knew he had to leave. If he stayed, he would never be able to move on, and what's more, he suspected she would not be able to either. She was far too beautiful and he loved her far too much to continue on with this torture. He had to abandon his comfortable life and abandon the thought of her and just leave, but he couldn't. He couldn't summon the will to speak with the governor. He couldn't summon the resolve to pack his things. He could only stare at her through the window.

Roshan glanced out the window again, gazing at her as she stood and turned towards the palace, her head tilting up towards his window. Her eyes, glowing in the moonlight, met his. Even in the darkness, he could see the softness and sadness in her gaze. His chest tightened. His heart shattered into a million little pieces. He couldn't leave her. He had to, but he couldn't. He just needed to get away from the window and stop looking at her. If he couldn't see her, perhaps he could gain some resolve.

Moving away from the window was only a temporary solution, one that lasted only seconds as his eyes kept moving back to the pane. As long as he remained in his room, Roshan knew he'd be drawn to the window. Sighing, he pushed himself away from the wall and decided to take a walk, hoping to clear his head and stop the unceasing conflict clashing within him. Leaving was almost unthinkable, but staying wasn't possible. They'd made love twice and he'd been powerless to resist. The very thought of having to resist was more painful than he could bear. Yet, he could not leave. He'd only gone as far as stating he had to leave before the decision stalled. He couldn't imagine being away from her. He'd tried all afternoon to imagine what it would be like. He'd tried to convince himself that he could live without her, but he'd been far from successful. She was everywhere his mind went, from the Far East to the Byzantine and everywhere in between. Absently, he wondered if yearning for her from afar would really be any less painful that yearning for her up close.

Again he met the Shahrdar on his walk and again he felt guilty for wanting to avoid him. The irony of seeking out the Shahrdar twice that day to talk and then wanting to avoid the Shahrdar later was not lost on Roshan. It hurt him to want to avoid the older man. If only he could just tell the Shahrdar he had to leave and the decision would be made. He couldn't. He stared at the Shahrdar, painfully trying to imagine a life without Soroya and realizing that though it would be excruciating to leave Soroya, there would be no small ache in leaving the governor as well. He saw so much of the governor in Soroya. She and her father were so alike, and though the hurt the governor would feel with Roshan's departure would be minor compared to the hurt Soroya would be feeling, it still pained Roshan to think about causing such hurt. If only he knew what to do. He opened his mouth to speak, but faltered under the Shahrdar's kind, understanding eyes.

"Is this a day for walking and thinking, Roshan?"

The statement was so true it, given any other situation, it would be laughable. How many hours walking and thinking had he spent that day? "It seems to be."

"I take it that earlier conflict within you has not yet been resolved then?"

No, it was still raging within him, stronger than ever. He had to decide what would be a worse tragedy, leaving Soroya and fatally wounding both their hearts, or staying, damming the consequences, suffering a guilty existence, having to hide what they had and then, being torn from her, possibly executed, once discovered. Would moving on from her now be any easier than moving on from her later? "No sir, the conflict is very much alive in me."

"Roshan, you are a fine young man and it pains me to see something troubling you so. Is there anything I can do to help? Any advice I can offer?"

Clarity would be nice. Ahura Mazda would ask him to search for the truth. Roshan decided to address his guilt. "Sir, what if you do something or feel something and it doesn't feel wrong, but you think…feel that it should?"

"Ah, you're in that place we call grey."

"Yes, sir."

"And this thing, it doesn't feel wrong?"

"No, sir, it feels right."

"But you think that it should feel wrong?" Roshan nodded. The governor smiled softly. "Roshan, that grey area is not the area that is neither black nor white, for there are very few things that are black and white. The grey area is of our own making. It is the cloudiness, the fog we create in our minds when we search for an answer we think should be black and white. Do you know what happens when you peek through the grey?"

"What is that, sir?"

"You find color." The governor's smile warmed. A hand fell to his shoulder. "Roshan, you are a wise young man, but you are still a young man. The wisdom and clarity you seek will come with age. I know we all want to divide the world between what is right and what is wrong, between white and black, order and chaos. It is a tenet of our religion, good thoughts, good words, good deeds, yes?"

"Yes."

"But it is not that simple. You know that it is not that simple. Life, as orderly as we seek to make it, is chaos. It cannot be black and white because life has too much color in it. That is what makes our lives so beautiful. Can you imagine our lives without it? Color does not obscure the truth, Roshan. It may be harder to see, but is there and the journey to find it is all the more rewarding."

Roshan listened silently as the governor spoke with the wisdom a man of his age could not possess. As he took in the governor's words, the governor studied him, eyes penetrating his. The governor dropped his hand from Roshan's shoulder. "Roshan, you are a man of strong character. You search for the truth and for order. You hold yourself up to the highest standards and that is good. Sometimes, however, when we hold ourselves to these high standards, we are so scared of falling, we search for what we think could cause us to fall. We complicate things and look for the wrong when there isn't any, or so little, the right far outweighs it. Usually it is far simpler than we make it. When something isn't black or white, do not let it become obscured by the grey. Wait for the cloud to lift and search for the color. You are a good man. Trust yourself. Even if there is the slightest hint of wrong in it, if it feels right, it probably is. While it may seem out of order, it may actually belong to the higher order."

Roshan nodded again but wondered how the Shahrdar would feel if he knew the actual subject of their talk. If the governor knew what felt so right was the spiritual, emotional, intellectual…physical connection between him and Soroya, the governor would not be so quick to thinking Roshan's dilemma was less than complicated. No, Roshan was sure the Shahrdar would be quick to find and see the wrong.

"Wait for the fog to lift, Roshan. You'll find the truth in the color."

"Yes sir. Thank you."

The governor smiled. "I'll let you continue on with your walk. You might try one of the gardens. I find they are the ideal place to see clearly. Soroya finds the same. She walks through the gardens each night."

"Thank you, sir."

"Goodnight, Roshan."

"Goodnight."

Roshan left the governor with the governor's words running through his head. He walked with a purpose, a destination in mind. He strided into the garden below his window, but Soroya was not to be seen. She'd moved on from that garden, and seeing it vacant left him with an aching emptiness. Sighing, he decided to detour through the main garden on his way back to his room, the first garden he'd seen at the palace and the place he'd met Soroya.

The large, rectangular garden was lit by torches. They were spaced along the perimeter. It was not the light they cast that captured his attention. It was Soroya, sitting much the same as when he'd first saw her, on the edge of the long, narrow pool, her fingers gliding through the water. Just as it had the first time, the sight of her stole his breath.

Roshan strolled towards her purposely. Her head remained dipped down, staring at the water. As he approached, he saw that her reflection was obscured by the moonlight. He sat down next to her and grasped her arm, his grip, though light, was firm and decisive, lacking all of the tentativeness his touch had before. Her face lifted to his, her expression full of shock, and of sadness. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. The white lines where her tears had run glowed in the light. He stood, pulling her up with him. For seconds he just held onto her arm, staring at her. Then, his arms wrapped around her and he buried his face in her neck.

Soroya sniffled against his shoulder, her arms gripping him tightly aound the shoulders. "You're not leaving, are you?"

He shook his head, tightening his own embrace. Deciding that his frantic shake of the head against her neck was not much of an answer, he pulled his head back, staring into her eyes. "No, I'm not."

A relieved sob broke out of Soroya. Roshan responded with one of his own. His hands unwound from around her and he cupped her neck, his thumbs resting against her jaw. Slowly he leaned forward and kissed her. Soroya deepened the kiss, her fingers running through his hair and his hands fell to her waist, pulling her tight against him. In need of air, he broke the kiss and stared at her. It didn't take seeing her in the garden lit by torchlight and moonlight. It didn't take the vision of catching a glimpse of their reflections silhouetted together in the pool. He only had to look into her eyes and he could see it all so clearly: color.

*****

His appearance in the garden was so unexpected. His kiss breathed life back into her. Lit by torchlight and moonlight, finding him next to her, gripping her arm without any of the previous tentativeness, him kissing her with force and with passion, it was all so astonishing. He was so warm, so breathtaking, so absolute. She almost collapsed with relief. He was there and he was staying. She held him tight, gripping him around the shoulders, weeping happy, relieved tears. She was not letting go.

Later, in bed, she tried not to think of the pain she'd felt all evening, but it was impossible not to contemplate how it would feel if Roshan was to decide he had to leave again and actually followed through on his decision. She had to do something to keep him there. She had to show him that they could be together. She had to do it before his fears left him deciding to leave again.

More tears gathered in her eyes. She didn't know if he'd be there in the morning and it hurt. All the relief she'd been feeling dimmed as they went their separate ways for the night. New anxieties arose. She needed to know he'd still be around in the morning. If only she could sleep with him, lie in bed with him, be wrapped up in his embrace and comforted by his presence. If he was there with her, she didn't have to force herself not to imagine his leaving.

Soroya closed her eyes, feeling the lingering tears fall to her cheeks. She wanted to sleep, but couldn't. The day's events, the hurt, the fear, the relief, left her exhausted, but she couldn't sleep without knowing that Roshan was still around, would always be around. She gripped her pillow, holding it to her chest, burying her face in it.

There was a soft knock on the door and she knew it was her father coming to bid her goodnight. Soroya lifted her face from the pillow and wiped her hand over her eyes. The door creaked open and her father stepped inside. "I'm sorry, Soroya. Did I wake you?"

She shook her head. "No, father."

"Good. I only came to say goodnight. Your nightly walk was much longer than usual. Did you enjoy it?"

She smiled. The walk had been devastating as each garden reminded her of Roshan. Catching his eyes in his window had been a nearly unbearable pain. Yet, it all ended so, so well. "Yes father. It was just what I needed."

"Good, I'm glad. Roshan was out walking. Did you come across him?"

"Yes, we met in the garden."

"He seemed troubled. Do you know if the walk helped?"

Soroya gazed at her kind, old father. "I think it may have. I hope it did." She studied her father for a moment. Since Roshan had come, she hadn't really spoken to her father, being so consumed with something else. She missed their conversations. She missed her father's reassurance, his wise words. If there was a time she needed to really speak with her father, this was it. "Father?"

Her father looked at her and stepped towards the bed. If he noticed her red, puffy eyes, he didn't say anything. He sat down on the edge of her bed. "Yes?"

"What happens when I marry?"

Soroya's father's eyebrows came together as though he was puzzled by her question. "What do you mean? You marry. Soroya, you don't have to think about that yet. There is plenty of time."

"And if I have been thinking about it?"

Her father rested a hand on her arm. "Is that is troubling you? Is that what has had you in tears? Are you worried about marrying?"

Soroya stared at him and shook her head slowly.

"Then, what is it?"

"What happens when I find a man I want to marry?"

"Soroya, when the time comes to marry, the decision may seem overwhelming, especially since you are already prone to a good number of suitors. You may like one and think you want to marry one, but be sure, my little girl. When you look at a man, ask yourself three things. Is he a good man? Is he a wise man? Knowledge, understanding and virtue are very important traits, my precious daughter. If the answer is yes to the first two questions, ask yourself the third. "Do you love him, or could you? Could he make you happy?"

"And if the answer is yes to all three?"

Her father smiled. His hand came up to smooth out her hair. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Then you will have found a man worthy of marrying. Make sure though."

"And if I am sure?"

"Take the time to decide, and please, be patient. Remember how your patience was rewarded in finding a tutor. Such patience will be rewarded in choosing a husband."

"And if it is the same man?"

Soroya's father stared at her, his eyes scrunching to study her, his face paling. His hand stopped moving over her hair. Her father was so quiet it frightened her. She wasn't used to her father's silence. He was normally so jovial and vocal. His face lost all of its usual warmth.

"Father?"

Her father continued to stare down at her. "Roshan?" he whispered.

Soroya nodded. Her father's hand dropped from her head. She stared at her father with wide eyes, still trying to make something of his uncharacteristic silence. This man sitting perched on her bed was not her father. He was far too quiet and far too pale. "He possesses all of those qualities, does he not?"

Her father dropped his head to his chest. His response was quiet. "Yes. Roshan is a prince among men."

She smiled. Her father looked up at her. His mouth opened and then closed. "Your answer was yes to the third question?"

"Yes."

"And do you know if he feels the same way?"

"Yes…I think so."

There was a moment of silence as her father's mouth opened and closed again. "Have you?"

Soroya looked away, burying her face in her pillow again. She peeked back up to see her father's slight, almost unnoticeable nodding. He stood and walked over to the door, pausing in the doorway. His back was still to her when he quietly bid her goodnight.


	19. The Persian, VIII

**The Persian, VIII**

Roshan's deep and dream filled sleep was disrupted by the feeling he couldn't move. He tried to turn on his side, but the movement felt impossible, as though there was a heavy weight pressed upon him. Slowly waking as confusion set in, Roshan next tried to lift his hand to his face, but found his arms pinned down at his sides, restraining him. The next sensation was that of a hand clamping over his mouth. Startled, he opened his eyes to see two men holding him down. His eyes widened and he tried to holler, but found it impossible with the large hand clamped over his mouth and jaw.

The man who'd secured his jaw removed the hand only to shove a piece of cloth in his mouth. Roshan struggled, trying to wrestle free of the men's grips, but they had the advantage. There were two of them and they were above him. He settled, trying to think of a way to gain the upper hand. The grips on his extremities relaxed and he forcefully pushed up, freeing himself for only a moment before the men quickly recovered and held him down again.

One man kneeled on his chest, the knee digging painfully into his rib cage. It hurt to breathe and he gasped for breath, choking on the cloth in his mouth. Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, his chest heaved and fell back down heavily. His captor's knee dug back in and the sharp pain spread across his chest.

The two men picked him up and he began to twist, hoping his movements would allow him to break free of their grasp. The grips on him held firm. Panic setting in, he turned and flailed, throwing the weight of his body around in the air, up and down, side to side. One man let go of the wrist he'd been holding and Roshan flailed even more wildly, hoping to break free of the other clasps. An elbow to the temple briefly stopped the flailing as the ache of the strike spread throughout his head creating a momentary blackness. His hand was restrained again. Once the pain in his head settled, he began to struggle again.

All Roshan could think of, as the men held onto him, was Soroya. He and Soroya must have been caught, spotted in the garden perhaps. His mind ran through different scenarios, but the most prevalent was that the Shahrdar found out and was going to arrest him and possibly execute him for daring to be with the princess. His decision to stay came back to haunt him as a new decision was being made for him. What hurt would this cause his family? What hurt would it cause Soroya? Eyes closed, he twisted again, wildly trying to spin himself free. If only he could get to the Shahrdar and explain himself, tell the Shahrdar that it was not something he meant to happen, but it was something that he and Soroya had explored together. He could try to convince the Shahrdar of his love for the princess. The Shahrdar would listen to appeals of love, would he not?

The constant struggling combined with the gag in his mouth began to sap his energy. It was so hard to breath during the exertions. His mouth desperately tried to suck in air, but he only continued to choke on his cloth. His ragged breaths grew harsher in intensity. His throat began to burn and his chest hurt. He rapidly felt as though he was losing consciousness. He closed his eyes and tried to remain alert, but was only dimly aware of the sound of the palace gate opening. His eyes shot open as he felt himself floating through the air, free of restraints. The men had tossed him outside the gate.

Heaving heavily on the cold, damp ground, Roshan immediately lifted his hand to his mouth and removed the cloth gag. His lungs burned as he struggled to take in air. Tears stung his eyes. He choked and coughed and stared up at the two men hovering over him.

"Do not come near the palace again."

"If you attempt to, you will be killed."

The two men disappeared back inside the gate. Roshan shivered. The cold ground stung his skin as he wore only the undergarments he slept in. Beside him, in a pile, he noticed his cloths had been tossed. He weakly pulled on his trousers, and then stood, rubbing at the red marks on his wrists where one man had gripped him. With all of his remaining energy, Roshan moved to the palace gate. He banged on the gate, his fists reddening. "Soroya!" His throat burned as he tried to yell, but he had to know how she was. He banged some more. "Soroya!"

A guard opened the gate and stared him down. Roshan stared at the guard, taking note that the guard was not one of the men who took him from his sleep and threw him out. He tried to move past the guard, but the guard was firm, staring him down with a menacing glare. Standing in front of him, the guard placed a hand on his chest. "You've been instructed to leave. Do not force me to treat you as an intruder." Roshan was pushed backwards, his energy-sapped legs collapsing under him. Slowly and with great effort, he stood and began pounding on the gate again. "Soroya!" It was no use. The gate did not open again.

Knowing there was nothing he could do that night, Roshan pulled on his jacket and began hobbling towards the town, thinking that perhaps his father or one of his brothers could make appeals for him. He continued to stumble towards Herat, wishing that the men had at least given him his horse. His beloved Atefeh was still locked securely within the palace's stables. He would not be able to get her that night, so he trudged on in the darkness, trying to formulate a plan to get the Shahrdar to listen to him and to explain to Soroya what had happened.

The night air was cold and heavy with moisture. Roshan knew he had to find some place to spend the night. He considered walking through the night until he reached his parents place, but vetoed that option, knowing he would only cause his parent's unnecessary worry by showing up in the dead of night. He decided to search for a place to spend the night, some place warm and sheltered and hidden from danger.

Roshan continued to walk towards Herat with heavy steps and a heavy heart. Just outside the town, he came across a peddler bunking down in a tent. Roshan approached him, watching as the man backed deep into the tent. Roshan held up his hands. "I am not here to rob you or to hurt you. I am cold, tired and in need of a place to rest." He breathed on his fingers and rubbed his hands together trying to regain some warmth. "May I?"

He stood still as the peddler, breathing on his hands as the peddler studied him and then nodded. Grateful, Roshan slipped into the tent, thankful to be out of the biting wind. Lying down, he closed his eyes and waited for the night to pass.

When the first light of morning broke, Roshan was up. He glanced down at the peddler he'd slept beside and removed his jacket, laying it beside the peddler as a token of his gratitude. The old man would never understand how grateful Roshan had been, but hopefully gifting his jacket to a man in need of one would be a step towards showing his appreciation.

He arrived at his house to see his father, face paler than Roshan had ever been witness to, speaking with an old friend. Both men wore such grave expressions, Roshan feared to learn the cause. He sucked in a breath and approached slowly. His father looked up at him with wide eyes. "Never mind sending for him. Roshan is here."

His father's friend turned to him and nodded. "Roshan." The man turned back to his father again. "Baraz, please let me know if you need anything."

His father nodded. "Thank you." Roshan waited for the friend to leave before approaching his father. He studied his father's worn, distressed expression. "Father, what is it? What has happened?"

Roshan's father ran a hand over his head. "It is your brother, Roshan. Naveed stayed over last night. Some time in the night, somebody entered the house and murdered him."

Roshan's eyes grew wide. He rushed past his father and into the house. In the room his brother had grown up in, Roshan found his mother, kneeling at his brother's bed. She was holding on to Naveed's still hand and weeping. She looked as though she'd aged years over night. Roshan kneeled next to his mother and took her in his arms, holding her. As he let his mother weep upon his shoulder, he stared down at Naveed.

Naveed was the brother he was closest to. They were nearest in age, in looks, and in temperament. Naveed had always been his closest friend. Roshan found himself unable to look away from his older brother. Naveed was lying on his stomach, most of his face obscured by the pillow. From what Roshan could only see enough of his brother's face to see that it had no life left in it. His dark, curly hair was matted with blood. The blankets over his body were stained red. Releasing his mother, Roshan peeled away the covers, finding several stab wounds across his brother's back. Roshan shook his head.

Slowly he stood and turned, walking out the door. His body moved without his mind's consent. He was watching himself walk blindly out of the house without conscious thought. Once outside the gate, he collapsed, struggling to breathe. His brother had been killed because of him. Whoever had murdered his brother had been after him. The assassin had mistakenly taken his brother's life, confusing his brother for him. There was no end to the grief as the reality of what he'd unintentionally caused set in. And, to make matters worse, was the grief in knowing that while he was responsible, the man who surely ordered it was the Shahrdar, a man he had deeply admired. And, the Shahrdar had chosen not to execute him as a man would, but to hire somebody to knife him in his sleep. Struggling to understand, Roshan kneeled on the grass. Naveed had been killed to keep Soroya from knowing about his banishment from the palace and to forever keep him from Soroya. Grief and confusion were replaced by anger. He stood and let out a long, mournful howl. Then, he ran.

*****

Roshan ran the entire distance to the palace. Sprinting in only his trousers, his feet and chest bare, he closed the distance in less than an hour, needing to get to Soroya. Something felt very wrong. Stopping dead in front of the palace gate, Roshan gave himself only a moment to catch his breath, and then began banging on it as he had the night before. The two guards, men he knew, opened the gate with shocked expressions. "Roshan," one guard held his arm. "You can't go in there."

Roshan struggled to break free of the guard's grip but the guard held firm. "I'm sorry, Roshan, but we have to detain you. Don't resist and you'll have your say with the Shahrdar." The guard then pushed Roshan to his knees and held him down with a hand on his shoulder. Knowing he'd have a word with the Shahrdar, Roshan did not struggle. He stayed on his knees and stared ahead at the palace. "Do you know, how is Soroya?"

"What?" The guard gave him a confused look.

Ahead of them, the Shahrdar stormed towards them, curled up papyrus in one hand, his sword in the other. The Shahrdar stopped directly in front of him, pointing the sword at his neck, the tip of the blade poking his skin. "How could you, Roshan? You betrayed me."

Roshan stared up with sadness. The governor threw down the papyrus. "I've read what you've written, Roshan, descriptions of my daughter as you laid with her."

"Sir…"

"Do not call me sir. Do not pretend to respect me."

Roshan dropped his head and then remembered his brother. He looked up at the Shahrdar, his glare angry and firm. "I have no respect for cowards."

He felt the Shahrdar's eyes studying him. He did not look away. The Shahrdar looked momentarily baffled by his statement, but Roshan was not fooled. He continued to glare at the Shahrdar. The Shahrdar shook his head. "There you are. Finally you show yourself to be the contemptuous man you are. You had me fooled, Roshan. I loved you as a son. We played chess together. We played polo together. I told myself you were a rare find in a young man, wise beyond your years, intelligent, athletic, respectful. Now I find you are nothing but an actor and yet there is a part of me that still wants to believe in you. I don't understand you." The Shahrdar's sword left his neck to circle over the scattered papyrus. "Your treatises are insightful. In your poetry, you speak of love and your words are tender and beautiful. They are lyrical enough to move souls, and yet, you do this. Who are you, Roshan? Are you the wise philosopher? Are you the lover or are you the abuser? You have certainly abused me. You have abused my daughter. Soroya loved you and you took advantage of that love."

Roshan's eyes teared. A part of him felt he had taken advantage of both Soroya and the governor. He was hired as a tutor, and though Soroya wanted the relationship to be deeper as he had, he should have held firm and maintained his distance. He'd let his heart and his body take precedence over his mind. He stared up at the governor. "I'm sorry."

The Shahrdar's face grew red with anger. "Sorry? She wanted to marry you. Tell me, why did you come back here? Did you forget something? Or, did you feel guilty?"

His eyebrows pinched together as he tried to comprehend the Shahrdar's words. The Shahrdar had to have known why he'd come to the palace. "Sir?"

The Shahrdar lifted his sword to Roshan's neck again, putting pressure on it. "Where is she, Roshan?"

Roshan's eyebrows lifted as his eyes grew wide. He stared at the governor. "What do you mean, sir?"

The tip of the blade poked further into his neck, his skin pushing back to accommodate it. "Where is she? Why did you steal my daughter away in the middle of the night? Why did you take her from her family? Where did you take her?"

"Sir, no." A few tears escaped and ran down his cheek. Sir, where is Soroya?"

"That's what I'd like to know, Roshan. If you want to live, you'll tell me."

Roshan couldn't breathe. Soroya wasn't at the palace? Something had been very wrong indeed. "I don't know where she is, sir. I have not stolen her away. I was thrown out of the palace in the middle of the night. Sir, where is she?"

"Do not lie to me, Roshan? Lying will not spare you. Where is my daughter?"

"Sir, I promise you, I am not lying. I did make love to your daughter, but we were acting on feelings mutual. I know you hired me as a tutor and I am sorry for taking my relationship with your daughter further without speaking to you of my feelings for her, but I did not take her. You have everything of mine but the cloths I am wearing. You have my writings, my hard work. You have my horse." Roshan paused, then in a voice so broken and pleading, he asked, "Where is she?"

The Shahrdar dropped his sword to his side. "You were thrown out?"

"Yes, sir."

"Azar."

Roshan looked at the governor, puzzled. "Sir, what's going on?"

"Soroya's mother. She wanted Soroya to marry Khosrau's youngest son. She wanted Soroya to have the finest of things, live in the finest palace and to want for nothing. Last night I told her Soroya wanted to marry you.'"

"Where is she?"

"Likely on her way to the capital. I have men out searching for you, but not for a company of my own men."

Roshan fell back on his heels. "Please let her be safe."

"I'm sure she is well taken care of." The Shahrdar paused and studied him. "You love her."

Roshan nodded.

"Mihr, get Roshan his horse."

The guard who'd been holding him down released his shoulder and ran off towards the stables. The governor extended his hand down to Roshan and helped him up. "I'll try to send word for my men to search only for my daughter and bring her home. You'll have the quickest start. Find her and bring her home." The governor unfastened the ribbon at his belt. "Be careful. Early this morning, I ordered some of my men to find and arrest you. I will try to call them off. Take my ribbon. If anyone tries to detain you, or the men carrying my daughter do not believe you, show them my ribbon and tell them I sent you."

Roshan nodded, taking the governor's royal ribbon and attaching it next to his. "Sir, before I leave, my family…"

"I'll send word on where you are."

"I need to know they'll be safe."

"Of course they will. Why wouldn't they be?"

Roshan took a deep breath. "My brother was murdered in my parents' home last night, knifed while he slept."

The governor stared at him with disbelief, paling at the news. "You think the attack was a warning and you fear further warnings?"

"I think the assassin mistook him for me."

The governor dropped his head, shaking it slowly. He looked up at Roshan. "I'll ensure your family's safety and I will make sure that all of the people who are responsible for your brother's murder face justice."

Roshan stared at the governor with wide eyes, realizing the full weight of the governor's words. "Sir, I would not think you a lesser man for showing mercy."

"Please find her, Roshan."

Roshan nodded. The guard returned with his horse. He mounted Atefeh and waited for the gate to open.

"Roshan?"

Roshan glanced down at the governor.

"You do love her?"

"Yes, sir, with everything that is in me."

"Soroya's admission of her love for you surprised me at first. I still see her as a child and to find that she's become a woman is a hard discovery to make. I worried about the life you could give her, but I was not displeased with her choice. Women are advised to choose a wise man and Soroya chose one of the wisest I have ever met. It broke my heart to think you could take her and the relief in discovering I was wrong will only be surpassed by the relief I will feel when Soroya is brought home safely. I know that your love for Soroya is what you thought should have felt wrong, but love is never wrong. I would not have stopped a marriage of Soroya's choosing. The choice has always been hers and she couldn't have chosen a better man. I do love you as a son, Roshan. Find her, please."

Roshan nodded. He guided his horse through the open gate, nudging the mare's rump. Atefeh took off in a gallop, kicking up dust. The two ribbons attacked to Roshan's belt blew backwards in the wind.


	20. The Persian, IX

**The Persian, IX**

Soroya glanced around at her surroundings, trying to remain clear headed. Having been told by the men accompanying her that they were under orders to take her to Ctesiphon to marry the Shahanshah's son, her immediate instinct was to fight back against her father's men and run off to find Roshan. She had stopped herself though, knowing she needed to think first. She had to be patient. Patience, the every illusive state of being she'd yet to really grasp hold of. She needed it now, if she really expected to get away.

Treat the situation like a chess match, she told herself. Remember the things Roshan had taught her and her father had tried to teach her. Logic, patience and foresight were of the greatest importance. Think, she told herself. Think about what was happening and if it really made any sense. Something was not right. Her father never would have betrothed her to a man not of her choosing. Her father had always told her that when the time came for her to marry, if she even chose to marry, the choice of husband was hers. His only other words on the subject had been to ask her to choose wisely, choose a man of intelligence and virtue. Only the night before had he reiterated his wishes for her choice. A part of her feared that her declaration of love for Roshan and expressed wish to marry him may have triggered this action, but she knew her father thought very highly of Roshan. Even if her father didn't approve of Roshan as a husband, he never would have had his men rouse her from her sleep, steal her away in the middle of the night and ship her off to marry another man not of her choosing. Her father would have spoken to her about it in the morning. Her father would have said "goodbye."

Patience, she had to remind herself again. The need to flee and find Roshan was strong and it took every ounce of resolve to refrain from running off. She had to use her logic, examine the situation and be patient. It was a chess match. She had to see the whole board in order to know what moves to make.

Soroya carefully watched her escorts as the group continued to move at a steady pace. She knew many of the men. They treated her with as much respect as they always had, approaching with bowed heads and maintaining a careful distance, so she knew not to fear them. They behaved as though it was an ordinary escort. They were pawns in the match, not the most powerful players on the board, but still to be respected.

They'd been traveling most of the night. In an effort to gain more insight into her situation, Soroya chatted with the men riding alongside her cart as though nothing was wrong. Knowing she could not wait too long, she kept her eyes open, searching for a chance to flee and going over important information in her head. They were traveling west, on a route to the capital. The sun was beginning to rise behind them. It was very early in the morning. She did not know how far they'd traveled, but knew it couldn't have been too far. They were still by the Hari Rud, or at least she assumed they were. Given her knowledge of local geography, she knew that there were no rivers for quite some time after the Hari Rud ended. It was all desert. The river beside them had to be the Hari Rud.

As they were nearing the desert, Soroya knew the men would have to stop, let their horses drink from the river and restock their water supplies. It would be very hard to flee in the desert; she would have to make her move soon. "Sarosh," she spoke to one of the men near her, making small talk, "how long until we reach the capital?"

"It is still another two days, princess."

"Can we rest? I'd like to change into some day cloths and eat." One move at a time, looking ten moves ahead. The group would use the stop to gather the water they'd need. It would be a long stop, slowing down the travel at worst, giving her an opportunity to slip away at best.

"Of course, princess. I'll tell the men."

"Thank you."

The group stopped and the men all dismounted. As they began making preparations to cross the desert, Soroya took the time to eat the food offered to her, picking at a loaf of bread and snacking on a pomegranate, knowing she'd need the energy. She had a flitting thought about stealing one of the men's horses, but though she was an excellent rider, she was certain the other men would ride her down and not treat her so freely afterwards. She sat in the shade along the river, studying its flow.

The Hari Rud flowed west, from the mountains east of Herat, through Herat, and then west. To follow the river upstream would take her to the south of the city. However, to walk along the river bank would leave tracks and the men would quickly find her. Soroya studied the river's flow. The river moved slowly, flowing smoothly past their point with almost no current. Having traveled to their location in the dark, she did not know how swift the river moved in between their location and Herat, but the river also flowed smoothly through the city. She knew it may move faster in between, but judged that she could swim upstream a short distance, and then walk the rest of the way. There was a bend in the river not too far behind them. Soroya tried to look around it and smiled, seeing that the bend would conceal her after she stepped out of the river and began to walk. She was a strong swimmer and with very little current to fight against, she saw little danger in using the river as a means of escape. The river would leave no tracks, and, it would lead her back to Herat. If the men thought she'd fallen in, they'd surely hurry off in the wrong direction, following the river downstream to find her.

The men all led their horses to the river to drink. Soroya watched, waiting until the men were fully occupied with their tasks before walking up the river. The men had all turned away from her earlier, giving her the privacy she would have needed to change. They were very busy in their preparations. They had yet to eat, taking the time to properly care for their horses first. Soroya knew she had ample time to get away. She had to use the opportunity. She slipped into the river, dove under the water and began to swim upstream.

The river was warm and slow moving. Soroya glided under the water against the current with little difficulty. Lifting her head out to take short breaths, she made sure to listen for sounds of any discoveries of her absence. It remained quiet and she remained unnoticed. She slipped under the water again, swimming until she'd past the bend. Pulling herself onto the bank, she looked through the brush to make sure she could not see her escort. Smiling when she confirmed they were no longer in her view, nor was she in theirs, she stood up and began to walk along the river bank, her drenched clothing keeping her movements slow. Slipping every so often, she trudged on, continuing to listen for sounds of her disappearance being discovered. Only after she'd traveled some distance did she hear the faint yells of the men frantically calling out her name.

*****

Roshan rode west, following the numerous tracks set down by horses and camels alike. Most of them, he knew, were made by caravan traders entering and exiting the city, but there was hope that some of them would be made by the people who had Soroya. It seemed plausible that they would travel along the Hari Rud and on a well protected route to get to Ctesiphon.

The sun was almost directly overhead when Roshan decided it was time for a quick stop. He had been making good time on Atefeh, but his mare was beginning to slow and would need water. Roshan dismounted, leading his horse to the river bank to drink. As his horse filled herself with water, he dipped into the river, cooling off, and letting the water wash the sweat from his pink tinged chest, face and neck. After only a quick dip, he stepped out of the river, keeping the rest short. Leading a reluctant Atefeh away from the water, he mounted her and continued to ride.

As he rode, he thought of Soroya. His mind could see her clearly, her head tilted back in laughter, her eyes narrowed as she worked to solve a riddle, her expectant gaze when she placed a soft hand on his arm and left him with a tingling feeling. So much of her disappearance was his fault. Now his thoughts were not plagued with how he should have kept his distance, but how he should have trusted in the Shahrdar. It could have all been avoided had he only told the governor he wished to marry Soroya and then married her immediately afterwards. Had an announcement been made right away, the princess, Azar, would not have had the opportunity to trick the Shahrdar's men into escorting Soroya to the capital.

For a couple more hours, Roshan continued to ride, knowing he had to be closing the distance. A group of riders, particularly one carrying a princess, could not travel as rapidly as a lone rider with nothing to slow him down. It was only his horse's fatigue that slowed the journey. When Atefeh slowed her pace once again, Roshan reluctantly decided it was time for another stop, this one longer than the last. The river didn't carry on much further, so Atefeh would need to take on as much water as possible. He needed to take advantage of the water as well. His mouth was parched, his throat was dry and the sun was beginning to give him a headache. It would be awhile before they reached another water hole.

Roshan dismounted and began walking along the river bank with Atefeh, searching for a place where the bank wasn't steep and the river could be reached easily. Hot and thirsty, he led the mare down the bank and to the water. Atefeh lowered her head in the water and Roshan was just about to do the same when the image of Soroya appeared.

He dipped his hands in the water and splashed the water over his face, wiping his hand over his eyes in an attempt to clear them. Traveling on the caravans through the desert, he'd found that when he was particularly hot and thirsty, his mind would conjure up the image of a water in the form of a stream or a lake or some other large body. It would after long days of hot travel with little water that he would be prone to his imaginings and though he was hot and thirsty and in want of finding Soroya, he did not know what to make of the illusion. Had he really willed her into being? He was not yet in the desert, and though he felt parched, he'd had water. For the most part, well, apart from the illusion, his mind seemed clear and focused. Roshan cupped some water in his palms and took a drink, then another. The image of Soroya, hiking along the bank towards him, was still present.

Roshan stared at the image with an open mouth. She looked so real, unlike the blurred images of water he'd imagined in the past. He stood up, leaving his horse to continue to drink and ran towards her, scarcely believing she was real. Sprinting along the uneven back, he was surprised to see the image of her change. Instead of continuing on hiking towards him as she had been, she stopped and was staring at him. Then, she ran towards him, falling on the ground in front of him. He fell to his knees and pulled her to his chest. She was real, warm and soft and oh, so real. She gripped him hard and he tightened his embrace. "Oh, Soroya."

Soroya's face pressed into his neck. He let himself hold her for minutes before pulling out of the embrace to look at her. He gazed at her and felt the need to pull her back into his arms. Finally, he pulled away again and stood, taking her hands in his and helping her to her feet. "Come on, let's get you home." His arm moved around her waist as they walked to his horse. He helped her mount and then climbed on behind her, holding her securely against him as they rode back towards the city.


	21. The Persian, X

**A/N:** Again, sorry about the delay. The updates may be a little more sporadic now, but they will keep coming.

**The Persian, X**

He held her securely against him, keeping Atefeh at a steady pace. They hadn't traveled very far when the sound of horses approaching from behind reached their ears. Roshan gripped Soroya a little more tightly, glancing back to see a company of riders wearing the Shahrdar's colors approaching quickly. He thought of sending Atefeh into a gallop to lose the riders, but stopped himself from doing so. Though he was an excellent rider and could outmaneuver the riders if he was riding alone, he did not want to take the same risk with Soroya on the horse. He was not willing to try any maneuvers that could get Soroya hurt, nor could he expect Atefeh to be able to handle the maneuvers with two bodies on her back. The extra weight of Soroya would only throw his horse off balance. Roshan slowed Atefeh to a halt and dismounted.

"Roshan, what are you doing? Come on, let's go."

"It's alright, Soroya. Stay on the horse."

"Roshan…" Soroya's voice pleaded from behind him.

He glanced back at her. "Trust me, Soroya. Stay on Atefeh. If things start to go wrong, I want you to ride her back to Herat as fast as you can and tell your father."

"No. Get on the horse. We'll ride back together."

"They'll outride us, Soroya. I need you to trust me."

"I do."

"Do you?" He questioned softly. She nodded slowly. "Then, please, trust me on this. I need you to promise me you'll ride off to Herat without me if you feel something is wrong."

His plea was met with silence. "Soroya?"

"I can't."

"You can. I've seen you ride. Soroya, we'll need your father's help if something goes wrong. I won't be able to ride for him. You'll have to. I've thought this out, Soroya. I promise you I'm not acting impulsively. Alright?"

"Okay." Her voice was quiet but the word came out clearly. Though she'd said it, a part of him didn't trust that if the time came, she'd do it. He could only hope that if things did go wrong she would be able to leave him and ride his steed in the way he knew she was capable of. He gave her a soft smile and then faced the riders, pulling the Shahrdar's royal ribbon from his belt. He held it with two hands.

The riders stopped and one dismounted before him, unsheathing a sword. "You've kidnapped the princess."

"I have not. It was you who kidnapped her. I was sent by the Shahrdar to retrieve her and bring her home."

"Liar."

Roshan extended his arms, holding out the ribbon. "The Shahrdar gave me his royal ribbon to take as a show of my sincerity."

"Liar!" The man shouted this time, approaching him. The arm wielding the sword pointed directly at him. "Kneel." Roshan kneeled slowly, staring up at the man. The other riders surrounded him. "We have been ordered to escort the princess to the capital to marry Khosrau's son."

"In the middle of the night?" he questioned. "Would the Shahrdar really ask you to rouse his daughter in the middle of the night and steal her away to the capital? Tell me, did the order come directly from the Shahrdar?"

The rider's eyes narrowed. "You are not in a position to be asking questions."

"Any man who can speak is always in the position to ask a question. Is it the answer that bothers you? I know that the Shahrdar did not give the order."

"Silence!"

Roshan wanted to risk a glance back at Soroya, but knew he couldn't. He stared up at the man, praying to Ahura Mazda that Soroya would leave him if things got any worse. "If you can honestly tell me that you received the order directly from the Shahrdar, I will say no more."

"There are other ways to silence you."

"Be that as it may, the most prudent way would be to answer the question. I am not afraid of the answer, so it begs the question, why would you fear it?"

The man stared at him. Roshan could see the anger burning in the man's eyes. He held the eyes, unwavering. "The order came from the princess, Azar."

Again, Roshan had to fight not to glance back at Soroya. The rider's words were a confirmation of what the Shahrdar had suspected, so he'd been prepared. For Soroya, however, to hear that her mother had been behind her abduction and apparent betrothal to the Shahanshah's son, must have been painful, shocking, disillusioning, saddening and a host of other emotions Roshan could not even bear to think of. He stared up at the leader of the men. "The order was given without the Shahrdar's consent."

"You are a liar!"

How many times would he have to hear that? It made him ill to think that somebody could question his sincerity, yet at the same time, he could not blame the man. He, himself, was very unsure of who to trust. At that moment, there was only one person he felt he could genuinely trust and he could only hope that same trust extended back to him. Could she remain unaffected and unwavering as her father's men called him a liar over and over? Remaining calm, he spoke sincerely. "I do not lie. Think about it. Would the Shahrdar choose who his daughter is to marry? Tell me, would you choose who your daughter was to marry?"

The man was silent. Roshan continued. "Even if you wanted to, the law would rest with your daughter. She could wed without your consent."

"We are not talking about my daughter. We are talking about the princess, daughter of the Shahrdar."

"Being the daughter of a man such as the Shahrdar, do you actually believe her options to be fewer?" The rider glared at him, eyes narrowed, but Roshan sensed an advantage. He placed the Shahrdar's ribbon on the ground in front of him and held up his hands. "Think carefully. I am unarmed. I have brought the Shahrdar's ribbon as a sign of my sincerity."

"You could have killed the Shahrdar and stolen the ribbon to persuade us to believe you."

"That scenario would be very easy to either prove or dispel."

The leader of the riders studied him again. His words still held an edge, but had lost some of the rage. "If you are not sincere, you will be executed."

Roshan nodded, chancing a glance back at Soroya. Her eyes were wide and filled with both fear and sadness. He caught her gaze and held it, his eyes finding a way to convey that all would be alright. When she gave him a soft nod, he turned back to the leader of the riders. "You wouldn't want to kill me if I was indeed sent by the Shahrdar, nor would you want to continue on with your journey. You'll have to return to Herat to settle this." Roshan lowered his hands and extended his arms out in front of him, holding his fists together. "I offer myself as your prisoner as a sign of good faith. Take the princess back to her home and settle the matter with the Shahrdar. If I am not sincere, I will be put to death."

The rider eyed him suspiciously. "What kind of tricks are you playing?"

"What tricks could I be playing? I am unarmed and at your mercy. You outnumber me. Bind my hands if you must."

The man nodded at two of the other riders. Roshan's hands were bound and he was pulled to his feet and led to his horse. "Princess, you'll have to come down. You cannot ride with him."

"No, I'm staying with him."

"What is he to you?"

"Let her ride my horse," he interjected before Soroya could answer. Though he'd all but been given the Shahrdar's consent, he did not trust that any omission she might make to these men would be advantageous. He also wanted to make sure that she could still ride off quickly at any signs of trouble. He was as weary of the riders' sincerity as they were of his. "I am sure there are other ways you could transport me. Place me on one of the horses attached to the princess's cart."

The rider eyed him again and then eyed the cart. The man gave a small nod, seemingly satisfied that there was nothing he could do bound and upon a horse attached to a cart. Two of the other riders grabbed him by the elbows and hoisted him onto one of the horses. He cast Soroya a small smile of reassurance and let himself be led back towards the city.

*****

Where ever Soroya rode, Sarosh was next to her, watching over her dutifully. When she tried to pull up beside Roshan, Sarosh would wedge himself in between her and the horse Roshan was perched upon. Soroya fell back with a sigh. She'd only wanted to make sure he was okay. It was the one thing she could focus on when she didn't want to focus on anything else.

Everything was so…confusing and beyond the realm of her imagination. She didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to think about how it was her mother who had shipped her off in the middle of the night. How could her mother, her caring, gentle, loving mother, send her off to marry a man not of her choosing? The men had to be mistaken…Roshan had to be mistaken. Yet, she knew that they were not. Her mother had made no secret of the wish for her to marry well and soon. It had displeased her mother for Soroya to turn down the affections and offerings of the youngest son of the Shahanshah, who could give her, as her mother put it, the most wonderful life possible. Her mother had told her that she would want for nothing, yet, she knew that while the Shahanshah's son would treat her well and provide her with all the material things she would never even think to desire, she would be left wanting. She would want for love. Only a life with Roshan could fulfill all of her desires and it saddened her that it was a want her own mother could not understand.

She couldn't focus on the betrayal or the pain or the sadness that came with the awareness of what her mother had attempted. It made her ill to think of it. She could only focus on Roshan, wrists bound voluntarily, being led on a horse back to Herat. His normally dark, olive toned skin was reddening in the sun, yet he had yet to utter a complaint or ask for anything. "Sarosh?"

"Yes, princess?"

"Roshan is burning in the sun. His skin looks ablaze. Can you give him something to cover himself up?"

"It is of his own doing that he is without a jacket."

"You can't leave him to burn like that."

"I have no clothing for him."

"There is a blanket in the cart. Let us stop for some water so that I can give it to him."

"We cannot stop, princess, not while we have this wily prisoner with us."

Concern for Roshan gave way to anger. Her temper began to rise. "He is not wily. He speaks the truth. I did not choose to wed Khosrau's son and my father would not have sent me off in the middle of the night to do so. If you did not believe his story, you would not be taking us back to Herat."

"Princess…"

"You cannot ignore the fact that he is carrying my father's ribbon."

"I am not. Suppose he killed your father?"

"To what end? To create a ruse and to take me? That would not be necessary. I'd follow him anywhere. I chose Roshan. Almost the moment I met him, I chose him for my husband. I know him. He would not kill my father."

Sarosh ignored her words. "We cannot stop, princess."

"Sarosh, please," she pleaded, "It is hot. He is burning and in need of water."

"Princess…"

"You are twenty strong. Surely you are not afraid of him overpowering you, or of him escaping. His hands are bound. Let us stop. I need water too."

Sarosh sighed beside her. "Very well. We'll take a short break."

"Thank you."

Soroya slowed Roshan's horse to a stop and dismounted. The riders around her quickly dismounted their own horses and one by one, led the horses to the river to drink. Soroya moved towards the cart, picking up the blanket the men had packed for her the night before. She moved to the front of the cart so that she could drape it over Roshan's smoldering skin. Sarosh stopped her with a hand on her arm. "I'll place it on him, princess."

Soroya shot Sarosh a warning glare, her fiery eyes moving from his to the hand of her arm. Sarosh quickly removed it, but held out his hand for the blanket. She glared at him again, her eyes warning Sarosh not to stop her. "You will not. I will place it on him."

"Princess…"

Soroya's glare never wavered. "Let me by, Sarosh."

"I am responsible for you."

"I am responsible for myself. Let me by."

"I am responsible for him."

She shot another angry glare at Sarosh. "I am going to drape the blanket over him and then I am going to get him water and help him to drink it. I am ordering you to let me by right now."

Sarosh stepped aside. Soroya mounted Roshan's horse again and pulled Atefeh up next to the horse Roshan was perched upon. Atefeh laid her head upon Roshan's thigh and Soroya could not suppress the small smile that made her way to her lips upon the sight. She unfolded the blanket and placed it across Roshan's shoulders. "Here, this should protect you from the sun."

"Thank you."

"I'll get you some water and be right back."

Soroya moved to dismount Atefeh again, but Roshan's voice stopped her. "Soroya, take Atefeh and make sure she gets some water as well."

She smiled again. "Atefeh looks happy to stay with you. I can bring a container of water back to her."

"She'll need more than you can carry in a container."

"Alright."

Reluctantly, she pulled Atefeh away from her owner. Leading Atefeh to the Hari Rud, she allowed Atefeh to drink while she filled a canteen with water for Roshan. While waiting for Atefeh to drink a little more water, Soroya drank from the canteen, relieving herself of her own parched mouth. She refilled the canteen again, climbed back on Atefeh and led Atefeh back to Roshan.

Atefeh resume the same position as before, head upon her owner's lap. Soroya leaned towards Roshan, bringing the canteen to his lips. "Why are you letting them do this to you? Why would you volunteer yourself as a prisoner?"

Roshan tilted his head away from the canteen. She pulled it back and wiped the water that had spilt from his mouth. Her hand lingered, as she gazed upon him. His eyes were soft. "It was the only way they'd allow me to take you back to Herat. Do not worry; your father will clear all up."

"Is my mother really the one responsible for all of this?"

Roshan looked past her. His voice was soft…sad. "It appears that way."

Soroya ducked her head and found his gaze again. "Are you alright?" He was silent, so she chose not to press. She lifted the canteen back to his lips and tilted it up so that he could drink. They interacted silently, her tilting the canteen back and then removing it when his mouth had filled, wiping the water that escaped from his lips, he drinking the water she offered and sending her soft smiles of thanks. Once the canteen was emptied, Soroya leaned forward and tenderly kissed his temple.

"Princess!"

Soroya snapped her head back and turned to look at an angry Sarosh. She glared at him. "Yes?"

"It is time to go."

She tossed the empty canteen back at him. "Then do me a favor and fill this quickly."

Sarosh glared back at her, but took the canteen to the river. Soroya turned her attention back to Roshan. Her fingers combed through his hair. She pressed another soft kiss to his temple, delighting in the fact that he leaned into the kiss.

"You should go."

His words were soft and held reluctance. His eyes were on Sarosh behind them. Soroya nodded. "I love you."

Roshan smiled. "I need you to keep your promise that you'll ride off on Atefeh if something doesn't feel right."

"Everything will be fine. I trust you. I trust that these actions of yours are what's best."

"Good. I trust that if the time comes where you need to ride off, you'll know that leaving me behind is the best thing, and you'll go to find your father."

Soroya smirked. She ran a hand along Atefeh's mane. "We'll get to Herat together."

"Princess." Sarosh pulled up beside her, handing her the canteen. "Come on, we must be off."

Soroya gave Roshan a soft smile. The men leading Roshan's horse pulled on the reigns, placing the horses and the cart in motion. Soroya rode adjacent to the cart, Sarosh beside her, both pairs of eyes watching over Roshan as the rode on.


	22. The Persian, XI

**The Persian, XI**

Soroya continued to watch over Roshan as they slowly made their way back to Herat. Sarosh had begun to treat Roshan better after receiving more than a few withering gazes from Soroya. He'd made sure Roshan had been given water and food. She had yet to be able to convince Sarosh to untie the binds that held Roshan's wrists together, so she had to find some satisfaction in Sarosh's attempt to at least treat Roshan with more humanity.

When darkness began to fall, Soroya glanced around at the riders. They had been riding for so many hours, she could see the exhaustion written on their features. A few of the men were swaying side to side on their horses, trying to keep awake. Ahead of her, Roshan's body was swaying as well and she could see him fighting to stay astride. She feared he'd soon slip from his horse, but she was worried about asking Sarosh to stop. They were so close to Herat, to her father, to Roshan's release once her father cleared the situation up. What would happen if they stopped for the night? Would the over-tired men become paranoid of their prisoner and act hastily at any small movements? She doubted that she and Roshan could make a break for it. The men had been watching her far too carefully since they'd found her. She knew they were determined not to let her slip away again.

Beside her, Sarosh eyed his men wearily. Soroya bit her lip as Sarosh sighed. "We'll have to stop, princess." She nodded reluctantly. Roshan would get them through the night. She'd get Roshan through the night.

Sarosh rode ahead of her, speaking with the other riders. The group slowed to a stop and most of the riders began setting up camp while the remaining few watched over her and Roshan. She listened as Sarosh quickly established a rotating watch, telling the men he and two others would take the first one so that the rest of the men could get some sleep. The riders would sleep in tents, she'd been given a bed in the cart, and Roshan, she discovered, would have to make due on the ground.

As the men readied for sleep, Soroya moved to the river, through the brush, being followed closely by Sarosh. She dipped a cloth into the river and turned, bumping against him. "What are you doing, princess?"

She glanced beyond him, looking towards the camp. It was dark, and the only light visible came from the flames of a newly lit fire. The camp on the other side of the brush seemed like another world. "I've wet a cloth to give to Roshan so that he may wash himself."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. Excuse me." She tried to move past him, but he stepped in front of her again. "Let me by, Sarosh."

"What would your father say to this excessive attention and over-protectiveness of the prisoner?"

"Is it over-protectiveness? I thought I was merely exercising caution."

She moved to step by, but Sarosh remained firmly in place. "What is he to you?"

She glared at him. "I've already told you. Let me by."

"So that you can wash that man down? It's not appropriate."

"It's not appropriate for you to trap me in the brush, Sarosh. Let me by. I am going to wash Roshan down and then I am going to watch over him throughout the night. Give another man my bed. I won't be using it."

She pushed past Sarosh as he stepped aside. Walking back into the camp, she knelt down beside Roshan and carefully began to wipe the dirt and grime from his face and neck. She was gentle with her movements, slowly running the cloth over his features and then tenderly placing soft kisses along the clean skin. She glided the cloth along his jaw and his bound hands caught hers, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand as they gazed at one another. "Thank you."

Soroya nodded. Roshan's hands released hers and cupped her jaw as high as his bound wrists would allow. She closed her eyes as his fingers softly caressed her neck and one of his thumbs moved smoothly over her bottom lip. The softest whisper of a kiss on her lips caused her to open her eyes and she leaned forward for another brief taste of his beautiful mouth.

She felt Sarosh step forward behind her. Roshan's hands dropped from her jaw and she resumed her task, slowly and gently running the cloth over Roshan's shoulders, down his back and back up over his chest. She smiled as Roshan sucked in a breath. The cloth dropped from her hand and she let the tips of her fingers drift across his burnt chest.

"Enough, princess! You have given that man enough attention. He is clean. Unless you want your father to know of your activities, you will move away from him."

Soroya turned her head back to Sarosh, glaring at him. Roshan's soft voice met her ears, causing her glare to drop. "It's alright Soroya. We'll have a lifetime of that. It would be better for you to listen to Sarosh tonight."

She glanced back at Roshan and nodded. Standing, she approached Sarosh. "At least untie his hands for the night."

"I cannot do that."

"The rope is digging into his wrists. Surely you can find another way to restrain him."

"The binds stay."

Soroya steeled herself for a fight. Again Roshan's voice stopped her. "Soroya, I'll be fine. Get some sleep."

She never. She moved to her cart and retrieved the blankets, providing one for Roshan to lie on and another to wrap around herself. She covered Roshan with the blanket that had provided him protection from the sun and watched over him through the night, forcing herself to stay awake as the guards changed over again and again.

When the sun rose the next morning, she checked over Roshan's wrists, wincing at the redness of them. His movements in the night had left angry rope marks. She kissed each wrist, ignoring the glares directed at her by Sarosh. She brought Roshan some food and ate along side him. When the riders were ready to depart, she mounted Roshan's horse and took her place adjacent to him as they closed the distance to Herat.

They reached the palace gate only a few hours later. The gate opened and they rode their horses through. The gate closed behind them and two of the riders lifted Roshan by the elbows and threw him roughly onto the ground. Soroya flew off her horse and rushed to his side, combing her hands through his hair and asking if he was alright. Her father appeared before them, striding quickly towards her, an overwhelming look of relief evident on his face. She stood, running towards her father and burying herself in his embrace, letting her emotions flow as tears fell onto her father's arms. "Father, Roshan…" She couldn't say any more, choking on her tears. Her father's arms tightened around her.

*****

The impact of his knees upon the hard ground hurt. He struggled to his knees, trying to catch his breath. He could feel Soroya's fingers brush softly through his hair and over his scalp. She kept asking him if he was alright and he could only nod, choking and coughing on the dirt that had flown up and into his mouth when he landed on the ground. His mouth tasted of the dirt he'd swallowed.

Soroya's presence disappeared from beside him. Roshan lifted his fists to his eyes, brushing away the dust that had clouded his vision. He slowly opened his eyes to see Soroya buried in her father's embrace. He watched as her head lifted and she looked at him with tear-filled eyes. She stepped out of her father's arms and approached him, turning back to her father. "Father, please…"

Roshan looked on as the Shahrdar approached Sarosh. "Sarosh, untie this man. What is the meaning of this?"

"Sir, he had your scarf. We were worried that he'd killed you and stolen the scarf."

"As you can see, I am very much alive. I gave him the scarf to carry. Untie him, now!"

The Shahrdar spoke with great authority. Roshan could see the effect the Shahrdar's tone had on Sarosh. Sarosh cut away the bindings and looked up at the Shahrdar. "Sir, he offered himself as a prisoner."

"Even so, would you not treat him as a man?" Sarosh said nothing. The Shahrdar turned to Roshan. "Are you alright, Roshan?"

Was he? Now that the fear and urgency had left his system, he could only think of his family. He felt the loss. The sorrow and the pain began to accumulate within him. Naveed was gone. The grief he'd put aside fell over him. His family would forever be changed. He would forever be changed. He knew the pain of loss. Roshan remained silent and caught Soroya's uncertain gaze. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth. She was home. She was safe. "Yes, sir, I will be."

Roshan rubbed at his wrists. Soroya was on her knees facing him in an instant. He stared at her as she took each of his hands in each of hers. Slowly lifting one hand and then the other, Soroya placed the softest of kisses upon his wrists. He closed his eyes upon the sensation and then choked back a sob. Rising up on his knees, he wrapped his arms around Soroya, holding her to his chest. Her arms came around his back, holding him in their security. He pressed his face into her neck, tightening his embrace.

Soroya's lips landed upon his neck, moist and soft. Roshan pulled his head and kissed her forehead, cupping her face properly and wiping away her tears with his thumbs. Soroya leaned forward and kissed his temple again. He wanted to kiss her but his mouth still tasted like dirt. Instead, he wrapped his arms back around her and fell back on his heels. He coughed, clearing his throat, trying to speak and finding the words coming out raspy. "Are you alright, Soroya?"

She nodded rapidly. He turned her in his embrace so that her shoulder rested against his chest. The riders and the Shahrdar stared on, the riders in shock, the Shahrdar with tenderness.

Roshan was faintly aware of the Shahrdar turning to one of the palace's servants. "Payam, would you please tell the princess, Azar, that I would like to see her?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sarosh, take the men and put away the horses. I will discuss this with you later."

Roshan winced at the Shahrdar's tone, yet he knew the men would not be in too deep of trouble. He could not fault them for following orders from his own wife, no matter how troubling those orders were. She commanded respect and obedience. Like queen in chess, she could come at her opponents from all angles as she so seemingly had. The parallels were striking, the significance, frightening.

Roshan's attention turned back to Soroya when he felt her lift herself from him. She kneeled beside him and both sets of eyes watched as Soroya's mother approached, stopping dead in her tracks. The princess, Azar, stared at him, approaching slowly with utter shock and disbelief written on her face. Roshan held her gaze, not willing to drop his eyes from the woman responsible for his brother's death, his family's pain and Soroya's kidnapping. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to hate her. Soroya loved her mother, and while he felt relief at Soroya's return and anger towards the woman who had put them all through so much pain, he mostly felt responsible.

The Shahrdar turned to his wife. "Roshan, the teller of tales, has a tale for you, Azar. He and Soroya have been through quite an ordeal."

The princess, Azar, opened and closed her mouth. "How?"

The Shahrdar's voice rose in anger. "How could you do that to your own daughter?"

Roshan watched as battle lines drew. The princess, Azar's body shot towards the Shahrdar. "How could you allow her to marry that? I did it for her protection. You would let her throw her life away marrying a scholar."

Roshan dropped his gaze from the scene. Soroya did not let him draw away. Instead, she offered him relief, clasping his hand in hers. Her voice was soft as she looked at her mother with sadness. "You married a scholar. Father was a scholar as well."

"Your father was a prince. This man you want to marry is but a pauper."

"He is a member of the aristocracy."

"A low member. Soroya, do you know what kind of life you'd have with him? You fell in love with his stories of adventure, not with the man."

It was painful to listen to, yet he feared the princess, Azar may have been correct. What if Soroya had fallen for his stories and mistaken it for love. Indeed, in the beginning, he'd told the stories to keep her interested and to spend more time with her.

"You are wrong. I've heard many tales of adventure before, yet I did not feel love for the story tellers. I fell in love with the man. I know him. I know my feelings are real."

"He is poor, Soroya. He cannot give you anything. I did this for you. A mother wants her child to have the best life possible. What can this man give you?"

Roshan waited for Soroya's hand to drop his, but she held firm. He turned his gaze to her and watched as she addressed her mother with a sad, almost defeated tone. "If you don't understand, mother, then nothing I say will help you to. If you really loved father, if you loved him with a passion that consumed you, you wouldn't have to ask."

Roshan brushed his thumb over the back of Soroya's hand, trying to provide whatever comfort he could. He looked up at the Shahrdar, seeing the sorrow in the elder man's eyes. His eyes moved back to Soroya's mother, watching as she glanced beside her at the Shahrdar. "I do love your father, Soroya. I knew when I accepted him as my husband that I was getting the greatest man."

"You were fortunate to find the greatest man among your class." With Soroya's words, Roshan's heart stopped. In one single instant, one very brief moment in time, but in a moment that felt like an eternity, he could not breathe. Soroya gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I was fortunate to discover the greatest man even though he was not of our class. I was fortunate to be able to see that greatness in him. Society may deem him lower, but he is superior in standing. I know you love father for all his greatness, but I also know that it isn't that all-consuming, intense, unable to live without, kind of love. I love Roshan, mother, passionately, wholey and completely. For me, the best life possible is a life with him. Without him, something will always be missing, a piece of me, of my heart, of my soul that belongs solely to him."

Roshan lifted Soroya's hand and held it over her chest, trying to convey to her that which she gave to him, she also possessed. She held pieces of him and without her by his side, keeping those pieces close to the breast, he'd be left only with emptiness.

The Shahrdar had been silent during the entire exchange. He looked sullen and ill. Roshan struggled to understand what the Shahrdar would be feeling, especially after Soroya's epiphanic vocalizations. What would it be like to realize that while the woman you love loved you, it was not with that passion and purity a man searches for. He'd never know. Soroya loved him as passionately and purely as he loved her. He watched as the Shahrdar turned to his wife. "You almost stole that from her. You are a thief. What other treachery are you capable of, Azar? I know when you first set eyes on Roshan this morning; you were wondering how it was possible that you were seeing him. Are you still wondering?" The princess Azar was silent. The Shahrdar continued, his voice rising in anger. "The assassins you hired to kill Roshan killed his brother. You stole an innocent young man's life!"

The princess Azar gasped. Her face drained of color as shock washed over her. Roshan looked on, a part of him wanting to condemn her, but knowing he couldn't. He watched as the princess Azar's mouth fell open and her head began to shake back and forth in guilt and disbelief. Out of the side of his eye, he saw Soroya's face shoot to his as her eyes questioned him. He continued to stare up at the princess Azar. To know she was suffering in the knowledge offered him no comfort.

"No…no…" The princess Azar continued to shake her head back and forth. She began to weep.

Soroya looked at him, pleadingly, her eyes begging him to tell her it wasn't true. "Roshan?"

He turned to her and saw the fear. He couldn't say it, but he knew his eyes confirmed it. Soroya shook her head and brought his hand to her chest, the back of his hand resting over her heart. Her other hand landed on top, cradling their entwined hands. "I am so sorry."

The princess Azar dropped to her knees, still weeping. "I am guilty. It was supposed to be you. I never meant to take an innocent man's life."

"You did." He choked the words out, the connotations of her words weighing heavily on him. If he'd been killed, an innocent life would not have been taken. He too was responsible for Naveed's death.

"I'm sorry. I will forever be dammed with the knowledge of it." Roshan nodded and watched as he gaze lifted to the Shahrdar. "Ehsan, I am sorry. You will never know my sorrow, my guilt. I hold myself completely accountable."

The Shahrdar looked down upon his wife with disdain. Roshan watched as the governor's shoulders shook. "I'll leave it to Roshan to decide your fate."

Roshan's eyes widened. He glanced up at the Shahrdar and then moved his gaze to Soroya. Soroya loved her mother, would love her despite what she'd done, reluctantly perhaps, but also unconditionally. Even apart from Soroya, he could not decide the princess Azar's outcome. It was not in his nature to pass judgment, to condemn her, or to pardon her. He did not know if a husband could, only that he couldn't. He looked up at the governor again. "Sir, I am not a judge. I cannot decide her fate."

Three sets of eyes stared at him. "I am sorry, sir, but I cannot. You are the governor, Ehsan Khorvash; it is your responsibility. Nothing you do will bring my brother back or lessen the pain. I trust that your decision will honor the justice my family seeks. I will understand and accept any decision you make."

"Will you give me time to consider it?"

"I'd expect nothing less, sir." He paused and then turned his face to the princess Azar. "I do ask one thing, though, princess. I ask that you go to my family and personally confess your theft. Look my parents in the eye and tell them that it was you who was responsible for stealing their second youngest son's life. Explain it to them and answer all of their questions honestly. Express your sorrow to them."

The princess Azar nodded. "Of course. Right away if I may be permitted to leave the palace."

The Shahrdar nodded. "I'll have a guard accompany you. Roshan, you'll want to go along, yes?" He nodded. "Give me some time to put together a guard. Payam, lock my wife in her room until that time comes. Watch over her."

The servant nodded and escorted the princess Azar away. The Shahrdar approached Roshan and Soroya, bending down to place a kiss upon Soroya's forehead. "I'll send a man for you when the guard is ready to go, Roshan. Until then, I'll leave the two of you alone. We'll talk later, Soroya."

The governor left them. When he was out of sight, Soroya dropped Roshan's hand. He looked at her and watched as she climbed into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. His cheek dropped to the top of her head. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, his arms twined around her back, holding her to him.


	23. The Persian, XII

**The Persian, XII**

Faint murmurs of the sounds of life in the palace were barely discernable in the quiet of her bed chamber. Slowly waking after reluctantly succumbing to a nap earlier in the afternoon, Soroya found words outside her room sounded like whispers. Far more noticeable, yet still entirely quiet, was the sound of another person breathing. Her eyes fluttered open to see her father watching her from just inside the closed door. He smiled softly at her. "Did you sleep well?"

She nodded in spite of herself. Despite her anxiousness earlier in the day, her need to see Roshan when he returned and the thousand other thoughts and questions racing through her mind, her exhaustion had overtaken her, sending her into sleep and allowing her a few hours of escape. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and sat up. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Awhile."

She nodded again and studied the wistful expression on his face. "What are you thinking?"

Soroya's father crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed. "I was thinking that this is the last time I'll get to do this. From now on, Roshan will be the only man able to steal glances at you while you sleep."

Blushing, Soroya dipped her head, and then lifted it again. "Do you think he will?"

Her father smiled. "All the time. Any chance he has. You're far too beautiful a girl for him to let any of those opportunities go to waste, especially in sleep."

She blushed again. "I may be caught doing the same."

A gentle sigh escaped her father's lips. His hand came out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "You really are a woman, now, aren't you? No longer my little girl…"

Soroya could feel her cheeks glow as she blushed again. When she was with her father, she still felt like that inquisitive little girl, but with Roshan, gone were her childhood thought and feelings. She felt every bit the woman Roshan saw in her.

"I won't have to worry about your education ceasing, though. As long as you're with Roshan, I trust you'll always be learning."

"Father," she started, unsure of how to put her next words. The last time she'd spoken of her love for Roshan, her father had been uncharacteristically silent. She wanted to know what he thought. She wanted to know if he was secretly as against it as her mother. The decision had been hers and she knew he'd never stand in her way, but what if he disagreed with the decision. It would not change her choice, but she had to know. "What do you think about my choice to marry Roshan?"

Her father let out a long breath. "Roshan is a good, wise young man. I've read his treatises and they are beautiful and insightful. He'll be able to provide for you with his writings. He'll give you a good life and he loves you dearly. I have not met a finer young man, Soroya. I would be proud to call him a son. Never forget how lucky you are to have a man like that love you…"

She nodded, staring at her father. The wistful look was accompanied by a sad one. She watched as he fought to say something, opening and closing his mouth in quick succession. She leaned forward and let her head fall to her father's shoulder. "Father, what is going to happen to mother?"

After another deep breath and a solemn sigh, her father answered quietly, "She will be stripped of all of her privileges and power. She'll be given another room, a small one, where she'll be confined at night and for most of her days. She'll be able to move about her wing freely, but she'll be kept under watch. You'll be able to visit her if like and whenever you like. I will not keep you from her, but if you choose not to see her, that decision is yours alone. The man who committed the act will spend the remainder of his life in jail."

Soroya nodded against her father's shoulder. She felt the breath leave his body as his frame fell with defeat. She could not imagine how hard it must have been on her father to come to that decision, having to weigh his strong personal convictions about the importance of justice with his own deeply held feelings for his wife. He had to balance his daughters need for her mother with the needs of Roshan's family, knowing that his family needed not only to make sense of the death of one of their sons, but also to know that the death would not be something that would simply be dismissed. The punishment may have been lighter than normal circumstances, but it was still serious. Normally the punishment for such a crime would be death, yet she was sure that neither Roshan, nor his family would blame her father for not having the heart to put her mother to death. Her marriage to Roshan would already be tempered by her mother's actions; how would it be affected if her mother were put to death for those actions? The burning anger she felt towards her mother for committing an act so horrific would not leave her. It would only be joined by the pain of one more loss. One more death would not heal Roshan's family's pain. It was their time to mourn and then it would be time to move on. She'd help him heal.

"Is Roshan back?" Her father nodded. Soroya closed her eyes. "Have you told him?"

"Yes," her father replied, quietly.

"And?"

"He seemed relieved. He didn't want you to have to deal with any more hurt or pain than what you've dealt with."

Soroya lifted her head from her father's shoulder to look at him. "And his family?"

"Roshan is his parents' child, through and through, Soroya. Another death would not bring their son back. They do not want you to lose a mother as well. They want Roshan to show your mother the mistake she made by thinking he was unworthy of you, though I believe he already has. Your mother knows of her mistake and she will spend a life time thinking about it. She had imprisoned herself. That is what his parents want, for her to have to think about her mistake and live with knowing how wrong she was. Mostly, they want you and Roshan to be happy."

She wrinkled her brow, staring at her father. "You spoke with them?"

"Yes, I needed to know if my decision for your mother would be enough."

"What are they like?"

"Right now, overcome with sadness, but so very understanding and forgiving." He smiled at her, standing up. "Now, if you're done with sleep for the afternoon, Roshan's waiting for you."

"Where?"

"He's in the North Garden."

*****

Roshan waited patiently, sitting on the edge of the fountain and staring at his reflection. His thoughts moved back to earlier in the afternoon, first thinking of how Soroya had climbed onto his lap in the courtyard, giving and taking comfort. Despite the moments they'd shared talking and kissing and making love, it was the most intimate moment of his life, he needing her and she needing him.

After a few minutes of reflecting on the way they held each other, the way he felt so complete and at home with her in his arms, the immeasurable comfort he had in holding her there, his thoughts moved to when he arrived back at his parents' home. Between and beyond the grief they were suffering, they had been frantic with worry over his disappearance. The relief on his return had been visible. The color that had been devoid from their faces returned slowly, though not completely. His older brothers had let out deep, thankful breaths. His mother had collapsed in his father's arms. When he approached his family, they all clung to him as though he was the anchor, holding them together. They could not bear another loss. For a long time, he and his family had huddled together, holding onto one another and mourning the loss of Naveed.

When they had finally broken apart, and his father noticed the Shahrdar, the princess Azar and the escorts, his mother grasped him again. He held onto his parents' hands, his head bowed, as the princess Azar wept her sins. She was sincere in her confession, giving him the glimpse of the woman the Shahrdar had married and Soroya had called her mother. The princess Azar apologized over and over and yet had not asked for forgiveness. She had not pled for mercy and offered no defense of her actions other that to say she was misguided and she thought she was doing what was best for her daughter. She spoke of realizing how wrong she was about him, of finally seeing him for the man he was. She spoke of her weakness and how that weakness let in the twin Angra Mainyu and chaos. She pledged not to let her weaknesses or Angra Mainyu to overtake her again. She was honest and her confession was both solemn and sincere. And without knowing how her fate would be decided, she accepted it unconditionally.

After the princess Azar had been escorted back to the palace, the Shahrdar had remained, telling the family of his decision regarding his wife and asking if it was sufficient. His mother unable to utter a word, Roshan's father had spoken for the family in his kind and gentle way. While they could not make sense of such a senseless death, his parents did not want the reprisal to be the death of another. They did not wish to see any more death, or be the reason for it. The princess Azar would suffer in her knowledge. To hear her sincere confession had been enough for them. Hearing that, Roshan felt sweet relief course through him. The princess Azar would lose the power to hurt another with her misbegotten decisions and Soroya would not yet have to suffer the loss of a parent.

Once the Shahrdar had left, Roshan took the time to mourn with his family, holding onto his soft and gentle mother, exchanging embraces with his protective and caring older brothers and letting his kind and gentle old father hold him and whisper reassurances. They were his family, his beloved family. He had stayed for over an hour before needing to return to the palace and to Soroya. His family would follow later.

Roshan dipped a hand into the warm water of the pool, remembering how Soroya's fingers glided gracefully through the water. He stared at his hand combing through the water, remembering the beauty that stole his breath in a matter of seconds. Continuing to stare, he felt her presence next to him. Her reflection appeared next to his and her fingers fell gently into the water. He reached over and clasped her hand, entwining their fingers. Slowly, he lifted his face to hers, smiling softly. He lifted their joined hands from the water and kissed off the drops of water from the back of her hand. Turning to her, his other hand moved to her cheek and drew her face to his. In the gentlest, soul-bearingest of kisses, he tried to convey the deepest of loves and his need for her. The stood at the same time, exchanging more soft kisses, dipping and tasting, breaking contact only long enough to dip back in and kiss again. He dropped her hand and let his hands fall to her waist, drawing her in to kiss her deeply. His forehead fell to hers and he wiped away the tears that had pooled in her eyes and fell to her cheeks. Gazing at her and the gentle tears resting in her smiling, wonder filled eyes, he could feel his breath catch once again. She was so utterly beautiful and about to be joined with him for whatever life they had left on this earth. He held her close, feeling her soft breaths on him. That moment was theirs alone, soon to disrupted by the arrival of a few others and even though the moment they were sharing would be lost, it would be alright. They would be married in the garden.


	24. Interlude: The American, II

**A/N: **That last chapter was the end of the second life. I know some of you wanted to see a wedding and wedding night, but I decided not to write it, though I'm sure they were both very beautiful. I wanted to end with the promise of them.

A wonderful, heart-filled thank you to everyone who reviewed the second life and have been patient with my recent sporadic updates. I really appreciate all of the support and the helpful tips. It makes writing this so much easier, getting to look forward to all of your responses.

Anyways, now for another brief interlude…

**Spoilers: **Cool Change, Invisible Evidence, Bloodlines, Nesting Dolls & Committed.

**Interlude: The American**

_**Las Vegas, 2005**_

Her last words continued to run through his head. Her tone, her resignation, her acceptance of what she'd said as though it was a way of life for the two people she spoke of, it saddened him and it frightened him. The ride to the lab had been silent as he mulled over her words, trying to read something into her tone and hearing the words coming across in the same blank voice over and over again. Sara had stared out the passenger window, saying nothing while he continued to cast furtive glances in her direction, his eyes volleying between her and the road. Now, she sat across from him in his office, both finishing off their reports on the case. Grissom glanced up to see her face in full concentration, her hand scribbling on the paper in front of her, her looks and actions suggesting as though it was just another ordinary case…as though nothing had happened.

He stared at her, wondering at her control. Sure, she'd made the decision to move beyond her past, but this, what he was feeling, what he thought or rationalized she should be feeling, had nothing to do with her past. It wasn't about her childhood or what she'd been forced to endure growing up. It was what they'd been forced to endure over the last case. It was about having to watch her in a violent situation and her barely acknowledging it a few hours later. While he knew she'd lived through many more violent situations growing up, this was different. He had to witness this one. It was much more difficult to watch than to hear about. It was the living nightmare. He was ready to pull her from the case, escort her out of the building and drive her home, but she wanted to finish the case. And she had, admirably, though he wondered how much strength it took to do so. How much of herself did she have to bury? She'd opened up a little more, just after it had happened, but then, it was as if it hadn't happened. She shut it down and continued on the case, never speaking of it again.

Her calm was more frightening than her loss of control would have been. Where was the normal emotional outburst? He'd expected it, was prepared for it. He needed it. He needed to know that she was as upset and frightened as he was, that she was as affected by what happened as he was. Her only indication had been to change cloths, a blue shirt for a charcoal grey one, faded black slacks for dark black slacks. He'd seen the fear and the desperation in her eyes in that room, so why wouldn't she acknowledge it? Was it because she was trying to move past it just as she was trying to move past everything else? Would she ignore it or expect him to? He'd been scared to death. Never in his whole life could he remember being so terrified. He was petrified of losing her. He'd never pleaded before, yet he hadn't been able to stop the pleas that escaped from his mouth as he watched her in that room.

How many hours had it been now? He glanced at the clock. 6:12 p.m. A quarter of a day. He remembered entering the nurses' station some time during the Jo Ann McKay's lunch break, so it must have been close to noon, though he couldn't remember the exact time. Why couldn't he remember the time? His awareness of time was always so sharp. It was his job to know the time for everything, time of arrival, time of departure, time that a body was discovered, how much time they had to collect evidence before the evidence went cold, time of death… His careful observation of time was so practiced, it became another sense, and when Sara was around, that sense was heightened. If it involved her, he could give you the exact time for each event.

He had known Sara for six years, eight months, nineteen days and almost eleven hours. It was 9:56 a.m. when she first filtered into that lecture hall all those years ago, 8:17 p.m. when he bid her a reluctant goodbye after spending the afternoon together. It was 7:05 a.m. when he called her in San Francisco to come to Vegas to help out with an internal investigation; he remembered picturing her getting ready for work when he made that call. It was 8:29 a.m. the next day when she arrived at his crime scene and 3:51 p.m. when he asked her to stay. It was 7:48 a.m. when she asked him to pin her down, 7:49 when she stepped out from in between his arms and left him with words that had started his mind spinning, 5:23 a.m. when he got that phone call from PD about Sara's near DUI, 5:41 when he grasped her hand and offered to take her home, feeling, with her hand in his, he finally understood what the word home really meant. It was 4:26 p.m. when she told him of her past and 4:32 when he stopped what felt like an inadequate gesture of grasping her hand to pull her from her chair and into his arms. It was 4:33 when he ignored whatever discomfort he might feel and allowed himself to stroke her soft hair in an effort to offer her comfort and calm her trembling body. It was also 4:33 when he discovered that the intimacy of his actions did not make him uncomfortable but that he found them comforting to him as well; 4:33 when everything in his world, in their world, their relationship, shifted forever, to the promise of something better, to something he could actually feel within his grasp.

How come, then, when he had to stand and watch as he almost lost her, could he not remember the time? Because time stopped. In those seconds or minutes that felt like hours, time did not exist. Everything stopped. There was nothing left. All of those other minutes he remembered, had been moments that reminded him that he would not be able to hold out on his feelings for her much longer. What was he holding out for now? It wasn't for his job. Maybe in the past, but not anymore. He'd made an important breakthrough in discovering that if the choice became between Sara and his job, he'd choose Sara. He already had, in refusing to fire her when Ecklie demanded it, he chose Sara. Could he keep telling himself that he was holding out because he was afraid of losing her? Well, he'd nearly lost her and if she hadn't bolted safely from that room, he wouldn't have been able to cope with that loss any better than if he'd actually let himself be with her.

Time would go on without her, but he wouldn't. He'd be left with nothing, memories of moments where he tried to hold out on his feelings, and denied himself everything he wanted, but nothing else. If those were the memories he was left with, he would be haunted by them for the remainder of his life. He was so tired of living with the constant yearning and longing he felt for her. If he had to lose her, he wanted a little bit of something, something good and great and grand…something life changing for him to remember. In one instant, in a moment where time was lost, he almost lost his chance. In that moment where time stopped, nothing existed but that room and the two people in it. No emotion existed except fear. All the time he'd thought he had to figure things out was gone in an instant. Only after she was safely out of that room could time begin again. And though he was always aware of time where she was concerned, he found he could not ignore it any longer, not when he'd nearly lost his only shot at love.

Grissom stared across his desk at her. Sara's head was still bent over her forms. He gazed at her and for once, let himself feel. His did love her, had loved her for years, though he'd never be able to remember the moment in time that he'd fallen in love with her either. It had been something he'd hidden from and something he found he could hide from no longer. As much as he'd tried to ignore it, it hadn't gone away. It wouldn't go away. He had a problem and ignoring it hadn't caused it to disappear.

Grissom shook his head. Who else had said those words? Catherine, when she told him of Sara's outburst. _"Sara has a problem, Gil. You can't ignore it and just expect it to disappear."_ Sara, when Warrick skipped a court date, was seen in a casino and she didn't like the action he had taken. _"Warrick has a problem. Ignoring it isn't going to make it go away." _Now, he was saying it to himself. He shook his head again.

"What?"

He looked up to see Sara's eyes on him, a slight grin on her face and a hint of mirth in her eyes. His eyebrows came together. "Sorry?"

"You were shaking your head. Mind telling me what's on your mind?"

"It's…nothing."

"Oh…" Sara paused. "Okay. Almost finished?"

He looked down at the papers which had lain ignored for the past several minutes. "Yeah, just about."

"Me too. Do you want to grab something to eat?"

He stared at her, loving that she asked, but wondering how she could eat. He still felt sick and she was still acting as though the afternoon had no effect on her. He slowly shook his head. "Not tonight," he answered, leaving the possibility open for another night when his emotions weren't so charged and they'd be eating together for no other reason than to enjoy each other's company and perhaps to prolong their time together. Sara still looked disappointed, perhaps even a little rejected, so he continued, "I'll need a few hours of sleep before we start shift again."

"Yeah, you're probably right. I guess I should head home too. Goodnight, Grissom."

He nodded and watched Sara force a smile. His eyes narrowed as he studied her movements. She picked up her report and handed it to him. That was when he noticed the slight tremor. Her carefully constructed control was wavering. Grissom opened his mouth to say something, but Sara stood quickly, walking out of his office.

It took a moment to process his thoughts. Sara didn't want to go home. While she'd remained composed and in control during the investigation, she was fighting for control now, as much as he was. The front she put up was just a front. Instead of moving beyond her past, she was burying what happened. It hurt to see her struggling for control again. He stood quickly and went off in search of her.

Sara's head was resting against her locker door. He stood in the entrance to the locker room and stepped behind the wall, wanting to observe her unnoticed. The tremor in her hand was still present and growing in power. Grissom watched as Sara sighed and lifted her head from her locker. Her trembling hand came up and pushed against the door as she transferred her weight onto her feet. He stepped back, waiting for her to walk out of the locker room and toward the exit. When she exited the room, he slipped in, quickly grabbed his jacket and pulled it on as he walked out of the building and into the pouring rain. He tightened his jacket and made his way over to Sara's car.

Sara was sitting in her car, staring straight ahead. Her hands gripped the wheel, knuckles turning white, though the car had yet to be started. Each time she lifted a hand, he could see it tremble. Grissom's hand moved to his head as he brushed away the drops of water soaking his hair. He knocked on her window.

Sara's face shot to his. Grissom gave her a sheepish smile, feeling sheepish standing there by her car, rain running soaking him and drops of water falling from his hair onto his face. He continued to stand there, smiling that sheepish smile as she rolled down the window and stared at him. She continued to stare and he realized that she was waiting for him to speak. He cleared his throat. "Let me drive you home, Sara."

"Why?"

He looked at her, stared at her, his brow wrinkled as he questioned how she could possibly ask why. He tilted his head.

"I'm fine, Grissom."

"I'm not." The words were out before he could censure them. Sara looked at him, her expression softening. He dipped his head to avoid her gaze. Only after it had been silent for too many moments, did he lift it again. "You're not either. How can you be?"

"I'm alright."

"No, you're not. You don't have to do this alone, anymore." Sara shook her head, but he continued, "This isn't about your past, Sara. This is about this afternoon. I admire the way you remained focused and professional and composed during this case, but you can let it go, now. The case is over."

"Grissom, I don't want to talk about this here."

"I agree." He wiped away the raindrops running down his forehead and into his eyes. "Let me take you home and we can talk about it there."

"Grissom…"

"No, Sara. Do not say you're alright. You're not. I can see it. I can see the toll this case has taken on you. You can't drive home like this."

"Grissom, I told you, I'm fine."

"Sara, your hands are shaking."

He watched as she turned her gaze to her hands. Sara held up her trembling hands and stared at them. Her head fell back against her seat. Grissom crouched down by the window, his voice softening. "Sara, this isn't only about you. I need to take you home. I need to know you arrived safely. You're not the only one affected by this. Will you let me take you home, please?" He stood. "I'll give you a ride back to the lab before shift."

Grissom let out a sigh of relief when she unclasped her seatbelt. He stepped aside as she opened her car door and stepped out into the pouring rain. A hand on her elbow, he guided her to his car and held the passenger door open for her. When he climbed into the driver's side, he noticed her shiver, but he could not tell if the shiver came from the cold rain or the day's events washing over her.

Sara stared straight ahead. He reached over and clasped his shaking hand to hers, entwining their fingers and once again feeling that odd sensation of coming home. "He could have killed you," he whispered quietly.

Sara nodded beside him. Staring straight forward, he tightened his grip. "He could have raped you and killed you and I would have been helpless to do anything but watch. Adam Trent…"

"Grissom, stop!"

His head shot to her. He'd been almost unaware of his words, yet he knew he couldn't stop. They had to face this. "No, Sara, you can't hold it in. You can't pretend that this didn't have an effect on you. I'm struggling for control too. I can't…we can't…"

"What do you want?"

"I want you to let it out."

"Since when do you want to deal with someone's emotions?"

"Since it concerns you."

"Ha! No, you like to hide from them."

It hurt. He sighed. "Maybe, partially, but that doesn't work anymore. Maybe I didn't understand it before, but I was always aware of it and maybe I hid from my emotions, but I didn't hide from yours." His voice grew very quiet. "I have never stopped you from crying on my shoulder."

"No," Sara sighed. "You haven't."

Grissom closed his eyes and reopened them. He watched her carefully. "I need you to let it out, Sara, so that I can let it out. I don't know how to deal with it and I can't if you won't. I need you to help me. I can't let it all go if you won't."

"So this is about your own peace of mind?"

"No, it's about our peace of mind." He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. "You're not in this alone, anymore."

Sara pulled her hand from his. "Can you just take me home so that we can talk about this there?"

"Yeah." He reached up and started the car, putting it in drive. His hand found hers again.

They pulled into Sara's building. He parked and moved to open her door, but she was already out of the car and striding towards the building's entrance. He caught up to her and placed his fingers on the small of her back. When her still trembling hand pulled out her key and shakily began to unlock her door, he stepped closer to her, his chest to her back, trying to offer warmth and comfort. He could feel her quivering body take a deep breath, lingering against his chest, in between his arms, even after the door was open. After seconds of lingering against him, he felt Sara sigh and step into the apartment. He followed her in and watched as she took off her jacket, and her shoes, turning to him. "Can I get you anything?"

Grissom shook his head, removing his own wet shoes. Sara shivered and he took in her soaking wet form. "You're cold. Why don't you have a warm shower, change into some dry cloths, and I'll make up something to drink? Tea?"

Sara stared at him. He returned the stare, not giving an inch. "You're shivering." She shook her head. He wondered how the afternoon was going to go. In his mind, he pictured her having a shower and then sitting with him on her sofa, drinking tea and talking about what happened. He pictured her drifting into him and him drifting into her as they both gave and received comfort. Then, he pictured himself finally finding a way to communicate his feelings to her. He studied her and knew it was not going to be that easy. He knew she'd fight him on letting it all go, and he needed them to let it all go before he could move on, so he decided to bait her. "A criminally insane, violent, sexual predator had you locked into a room today, had his hands on you, had you in his grasp…"

"Grissom!"

His hands grasped her arms. He needed her to shower. He needed her to wash off what had happened to her. He knew that victims often felt the need to shower, but what about their loved ones? Did they need their friend or daughter or wife or partner to shower just as much? Did they need the dirt and grime and invasiveness of the action scrubbed off? He did. It didn't even get that far, yet he could still see it on her. He closed his eyes and pictured her in that room and he needed her to shower. He needed her to feel fresh and clean and pure again. He needed to see her as he always saw her and he needed her to see herself that way. He ran his thumbs over her biceps. "Shower, Sara. It will do you good. I'll have tea ready for you when you come out." He dropped his hands from her arms, holding her gaze with his, silently pleading for her to listen. He waited until she nodded, and then nodded in return. He watched her disappear down the hall and into the bathroom.

Grissom moved into the kitchen, finding Sara's kettle and filling it with tap water. He was just about to put the kettle onto boil when a loud crash and heavy thump stopped him. His head spun quickly to the bathroom and in an instant, he was knocking on the door. He could hear water running, but nothing else. There was no response to his knocks. He knocked harder. "Sara?"

There was still no response. Grissom's fists banged on the door. "Sara, are you alright?"

Silence.

Grissom's pounding became more frantic. "Sara, honey?" More silence. He took a deep breath, hesitating. "Sara, I'm coming in. Answer me if you don't want me to come in."

When there was still no response, just the sound of the shower running, he put his hand on the door knob. Feeling uncomfortable about entering her bathroom without permission, he hesitated. He turned the handle, fear winning out over all other emotions. If Sara was hurt, then he was wasting time. "Last chance, Sara. I'm coming in." He pushed the door open slowly. Steam was rising from the shower. He moved to the shower door and knocked, asking softly, "Sara, honey, are you alright in there?"

The sound of her choking back a sob was the only response. His heart clenched. He closed his eyes, dropping his forehead to the glass of the shower door. "Are you hurt?"

There were more sobs and another, much softer thump, but still no response. Grissom lifted his head and placed his hand on the door handle, pausing. "Sara, I'm not sure what to do here. I'm worried. Are you hurt? I need you to answer me." He glanced about the room and saw that there was no towel waiting for her. The only pieces of clothing lying about were her socks, though he reasoned she may have left the rest of her cloths in her bedroom or thrown them in the hamper, accidentally dropping the socks in the process. He lifted his hand from the door handle and then let it fall right back on top. He still hadn't heard an answer from her and he was growing more and more nervous about the lack of response. "Sara, I'm opening the shower door, honey. I really need you to tell me if you don't want me to."

After a few seconds of silence, he opened the door. Water from the shower sprayed out onto the floor, but Grissom didn't notice the warm spray on him. He was too busy taking in the sight in the shower. All of his attention fell to Sara, almost fully clothed, black slacks and charcoal grey shirt, feet bare, sitting on the floor of the shower, knees pulled to her chest, crying and choking on her sobs. He closed the shower door, cleared away the shower tray and shampoo bottles that had fallen onto the floor and sat down beside her. His arm came around her shoulder, pulling her trembling body into his side. His other hand peeled off his socks and tossed them into the corner of the shower. He let the warm shower wash over them as he whispered soft kisses into her hair, tenderly stroking her wet hair between each kiss. "I've got you, Sara." He kissed her hairline, his lips lingering on her skin.

Grissom pulled her in tighter, closing his eyes. He felt her body calm as the trembling stopped. She shifted. Then, he felt her lips on his neck, brushing slowly over his skin. He froze. His pulse began to increase and he briefly wondered if she could feel it beneath her lips. He could feel her mouth open, her breath hot on his skin. Her mouth was so warm and tantalizing, soft and wonderful. The sensation was both arousing and tortuous and he could not stop his body from responding.

Sara's tongue came out, dabbing at his throat. His head snapped back as he felt her lick away the drops of water falling onto his neck. She nipped and sucked and licked slowly across his neck and he could only pull her in tighter, his arm around her shoulder falling to her back and his other hand finding her waist.

Sara shifted again and he could feel her straddling him, warm, inviting… Her hands ran over his chest, over the blue collar shirt clinging to his body, over his shoulders. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her in closer, moaning as she rubbed against him and pressed into him. She continued to lick and kiss and suck, frantically attacking his neck. She ground against him and he pulled her in tighter. Her hands were all over his chest, the movements as frantic as her mouth on his neck. God, it felt so good, so warm, so mind numbing. Then, he felt her fingers begin to undo the buttons on his shirt. Her hands slid the wet shirt over his shoulder and peeled the shirt from his arms. Her hands resumed the hurried pace, rubbing her hands over his now t-shirt clad chest as her movements sped up. Her mouth attacked his neck, just as hurried. He felt her mouth close over his earlobe, sucking hard, possessed. Her lips found his chin and her teeth grazed over his beard. Grissom's eyes shot open. This wasn't her; this was a purely emotional response, and his response was completely physical. It was too fast. He released her waist and put his hands over hers, stilling them. He was out of breath. "Sara, wait…stop."

Sara's head shot up. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes. He brushed back his hair and stared at her. She was absolutely still, gaping at his with an open mouth. "Grissom, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She tried to lift her hands from his chest, but he held them down, unable to speak. Sara ripped her hands away. "You're being so sweet and I'm taking advantage of you. I'm sorry. This isn't me."

"I know it isn't."

"It's just, you're so amazing and comforting and well, irresistible, sitting here under the shower with me, fully clothed and soaking wet and I completely lost control of my senses. I'm so sorry. It won't happen again."

His hands fell down in defeat. How could he communicate what he needed from her? He didn't have time to think about it; Sara began to cry again. "It's just that I need you and I'm sorry for trying to take more than you can give. Just, please, don't let this change anything. I need you. I'll take whatever you can offer and I won't ask for more."

Sara moved to get off him, but his hands quickly came up to grasp her waist. He pulled her back down. She began to cry harder and he pulled her to his chest. "Honey, I wasn't saying, stop."

He could feel her tears on his neck and her lips against his throat. "You said, stop."

"Did I?" He did. He stroked her hair. "I didn't mean stop, forever, just stop for the moment. We just…needed to slow down."

Sara's face lifted to his. "What are you saying?"

Grissom combed Sara's wet hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She was staring at him, the shower spray running down her face. His breath caught at how beautiful she looked as she waited for a response. "I'm saying we were about to let all of those pent up emotions carry us away and we were moving way too fast, given what happened earlier this afternoon. We need to let it all out first, move past it all so that when this happens, it will only be about us, alright? Let's just take a few moments and let it go."

Sara's head fell back to his chest, her forehead brushing over his shoulder. He could feel her nod. She climbed off him and leaned into his side. He linked their fingers together. Grissom closed his eyes, stroking his thumb over the back of her hand. "Let's just sit here until it's all gone, okay?"

Sara nodded again. They sat under the spray of the shower, letting the tears subside. Grissom could feel the weight lighten and the atmosphere change. Sara's grip softened and she began to brush her thumb over his skin. He began to think less and less of her in that room and more and more of her beauty and her scent. Everything became calm and peaceful and serene. The shower began to cool and after turning down the cold a few times, Grissom stood up, pulling Sara up with him. He turned off the shower and stepped out into the bathroom, helping Sara out and holding her so that she didn't slip on the wet, tiled floor.

Grissom followed Sara out of the bathroom, watching as Sara pulled out a towel from the hall closet. He took the towel from her, but instead of drying himself, he gently ran the towel over her head. Taking her hand, he pulled her into her bedroom and stared at her. His hands landed on her hips, the sides of her shirt clenched in his fists and he waited for Sara to say stop him. She didn't. She only stared at him, her chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. Slowly, he inched up her t-shirt, toweling off her midriff. He stared at her, inching her shirt up higher and trailing the movements with the towel, gently drying her wet skin.

Sara stared down at him. He met her gaze, taking a deep breath. She lifted her arms and he put down the towel, freeing his hands to help her undress. Slowly lifting the shirt from her frame, he picked up the towel and began toweling off her arms and chest. When each piece of exposed skin was dry, he hung the towel over his shoulder and waited. His hands moved to her slacks, the movements cautious. Sara's hands landed on his, moving his hands to the button and zipper and resting on top as he slowly unfastened them. His palms trailed over her hips and thighs as he slowly peeled off her wet slacks. He removed the towel from his shoulder and began drying off her long legs in slow, reverent movements. He slowly lifted each foot, running the towel along the top of her foot, over her sole and between her toes. Kneeling in front of her, he pressed a kiss to her thigh. He looked up at her. "Is it all gone?"

Sara nodded slowly. He stood and watched her as she unclasped her bra and let it fall to the floor. She slowly pushed down her panties and toed them off. Grissom sucked in a breath, staring at her beautiful, lithe, naked body in front of him, the slope of her breasts, the slight swell of her stomach. She was breathtaking. He stepped forward and ran the towel over her breasts, unable to breathe, overcome by the beautiful intimacy of the moment. He bent down, running the towel over her stomach, and then around her thighs and up. He leaned forward and kissed her navel, his tongue snaking out to dip in. Sara shivered and he smiled. He brushed his lips over her navel again and then stood. He gazed at her, at her beauty, staring as she shyly looked away. Stepping forward, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Sara's hands tentatively came up and splayed across his chest. "Your cloths are soaked," she whispered. He nodded and stepped backwards, pulling his t-shirt over his head. He dropped the t-shirt and ran and hand through his wet hair, flicking water onto the floor. Sara stepped forward and placed a light kiss on his chest. His hands found her hips and he reveled in the feel of her smooth skin under his thumbs. "They'll dry." His voice was horse. "Does your building have a dryer?"

Sara smirked and whatever fears lingered about acting too soon, were quelled. Everything they'd been holding onto all afternoon was gone. This was about him and her, only him and her. He leaned forward and kissed her for the first time, his heart nearly stopping as his lips met hers. His eyes closed. Her arms came around his neck and she deepened the kiss. He was breathless when she broke the kiss. "Sure. Does this mean I get you naked in my apartment while your cloths dry?"

He kissed her again before stepping out of the kiss and removing his trousers, smirking as he handed them to her. He watched her turn to grab a robe from a chair beside the bed and then grabbed her arm, spun her back around, kissing her again.

"Griss," she panted in between kisses, "your cloths…"

"They can wait."

She smiled, dropping his trousers to the floor. He kissed her long and sweetly, running his hands up along her sides. They broke away and slowly began to touch each other, fingers exploring delicately along each other's skin in a slow tremble dance. Grissom glanced down to see his round stomach hanging down, his aging, unattractive body in contrast to her nearly perfect form. Sara continued to touch him, her fingers dancing across his chest, staring at him with such intensity and such pure desire, he forgot about how unattractive he felt. Slowly, he backed her against the bed, helping her lay down. He watched as she shuffled up the bed, one leg bent up, the other straight. He moved over her slowly, dipping down for kisses and watching Sara's head rise to meet each kiss. Her hands moved to his boxers, easing them over his thighs. He continued to kiss her while her toe came up to push the boxers further down until he could toe them off himself. His hands were on either side of her, holding himself above her. He glanced down at his stomach, falling onto hers, and fleetingly felt a pang of insecurity. Sara, though, was staring into his eyes and running her hands over his shoulders. He lowered his head to kiss her long and deep. Lifting his head, he gazed down at her and fell into her, into all of his tomorrows, into eternity.

Some time later, he woke, naked and pressed into her back, his arm across her hip and his palm resting flat against her stomach. How many times had he dreamed of waking like this? He kissed the back of her neck because he could and pulled her tighter into his embrace because he wanted to. Sara's hand landed on his, entwining their fingers together and he knew she was already awake. He glanced at the clock. 10:24. They'd have to get up soon and head into work. He supposed he should probably stop by his house first and grab some dry cloths. They still had a few minutes, though.

He pressed a kiss onto the back of her shoulder, letting his lips linger and remain resting against her skin. He sighed. He'd remember what time it was the first time he woke to find his dreams and forever in his arms, but he'd never remember what time it was when they first made love. The evening had passed without notice, faded into the night just as he'd faded into her. It didn't matter, though. What did ee cummings write? _"There is a time for timelessness."_


	25. The Spaniard, I

**A/N: **This story is going to be quite brutal. I apologize in advance. Very mature content.

**The Nine Lives of Grissom and Sara: The Third Life**

**The Spaniard, I**

_Of Gilberto and Sara or Dhakiy and Laila_

_**Ishbiliya (Seville), 719**_

_The dawn of the golden age of Islam and seven years into the Moor's occupation of the Seville._

Gilberto was hidden away in his quarters, grateful for the solitude, when his peace was shattered. Screams, the slamming of objects into objects, bumps, thuds, raised voices and yelling preceded a long, disquieting silence. It could mean only one thing: Malik was back, and based on the screams, he'd brought back another girl to warm his bed. Gilberto closed his eyes, thinking about the young woman this new slave was sure to replace. He'd been enchanted by her. Marie had been a beautiful and delicate young woman with a pale complexion and golden hair, but the only image Gilberto could seem to muster, was that of Marie's lifeless body, throat slashed, tracks of blood streaming down her slender neck and spattered across her hands and face. There were two equally plausible scenarios for what had happened. Either she'd killed herself, unable to handle any more nights spent with Malik, or in a rage, Malik had killed her himself, and left her body to lie in her blood on the floor. Malik hadn't seemed to care about her death at all, merely shrugging when Gilberto told Malik of what he'd found. It was Gilberto that arranged for a proper, Christian funeral for the young girl, the loss of her beautiful, young life filling his heart with sadness.

"Dhakiy!"

At the sound of Malik's name for him, Gilberto closed the book he'd been reading and headed down the stairs. He passed a closed door, hearing through the door reassurances coming from Rosita and Rochelle, two of the other women Malik had forced to become concubines. Rochelle spoke of the clothing and the jewels the new girl was sure to be gifted with. Rosita on the other hand, spoke of Malik's charm, and how satisfying life could be and how well the girl would be treated once she accepted her circumstances for what they were. _Charm_, Gilberto shook his head at the word, knowing all that Rosita and the other women had to bear in order to get a glimpse at that charm. He scoffed. He knew full well Rosita didn't believe her words anymore than he did. Certainly Malik could be very charming and charismatic, but underneath it all, Malik was a very cruel man and if this new girl didn't obey Malik immediately, she'd soon find out how cruel Malik could be.

Gilberto passed by the room quietly and with an air of sadness. He continued on past Juanita, a woman Malik had taken only as a domestic slave, and while the older and more haggard Juanita did not have to deal with Malik's sexual appetite, she was far more often the victim of his volatile temper and the cruel jokes he liked to play. Juanita gave Gilberto a sad smile, shaking her head. Grissom nodded with equal solemnity and continued on to the foyer, finding Malik pacing back and forth by the door. "You called, Malik?"

"Ah, Dhakiy, yes," Malik smiled, giving Gilberto a couple of firm pats on the back, then grasping Gilberto's shoulder as if the two men had been friends their whole lives. "Dhakiy, I've acquired a new servant of pleasure. She's being attended to by Narwar and Ameera. She is not yet fit to entertain me, arriving in my possession in some ragged textiles of your land. She'll need new cloths, silk, and lots of it." Grinning, Malik paused for a second, as if in thought, though Gilberto knew it was merely for effect. "She's very beautiful, this one, so I want nothing but the finest. I plan on showing her the deepest levels of my worship. You were a trader, yes?"

"My father was the trader."

"But you used to accompany him, yes? He taught you some things?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what the finest is, yes?"

"Yes, Malik."

"Good…good. Sahib will accompany you to the square. Before you leave, peek in on the new girl. It will give you a sense of her size and complexion and it will give you the chance to see for yourself what an exquisite specimen I've chosen." Malik grinned and then added, "She's a spirited one, but she's even more beautiful in anger. Anyways, she'll soon learn her place."

Gilberto forced himself to nod, though his stomach was turning. "Anything else, Malik?"

"No, no, that is all, unless you yourself require or want anything from town?"

"No, Malik."

"Then no, you may go. Don't forget to look in on my new purchase."

Gilberto nodded and turned, walking down the hall until he reached the door where he heard the soft voices earlier. He paused, hating that he was doing what Malik had asked, wanting to leave the girl alone, but Malik would know if he didn't look in. Besides, it would help to know what the girl looked like before he and Sahib went to town.

Knocking softly, Gilberto opened the door. Three sets of eyes snapped to his, Rochelle's filled with curiosity, then amusement, Rosita's, holding his for a few moments, filled with sadness and pity, while the other's, red-rimmed, filled with fire. The moment he'd met the new girl's eyes, they taken possession of him immediately and he had to leave before the women noticed his stare. He closed the door quietly and leaned against it. It wasn't only the eyes. Malik's new concubine was very beautiful. In the short time the Muslims had been in the city, Gilberto had learned that their tastes, Malik's included, ran more towards northern women, usually from Gaul, with lighter features, lighter skin, lighter hair, lighter eyes, but this girl was dark, more local, and definitely not from the north like the others. Her complexion was a light brown, tanned, but not as dark as some of the local women got. She had dark brown hair and deep brown eyes. And, she had spirit. He could see it immediately, the way her eyes had flashed in anger. He wondered sadly how long it would take Malik to break that spirit.

Gilberto pushed himself up off the door and moved back to the foyer, looking to meet Sahib outside. Malik stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You have seen my new prize?"

Malik's words and tone made him queasy. He saw something in Malik's eyes when speaking of the new girl that caused his mind to run. The girl was so different from the others and he wondered what Malik's plans for her were. He met Malik's eyes. "Yes."

"She's very beautiful?"

"Yes, Malik, you have excellent taste."

Malik's voice grew low, voicing a thinly veiled warning. "And you understand how a man must guard and protect such a beautiful possession."

Gilberto swallowed to stop the bile from rising in his throat. Malik sickened him to no extent. Of all the people who could have been assigned to hold the city, scholars, visionaries, administrators and generals, the Moors had left Sevilla with the cruelest one. Gilberto did not doubt that Malik's cruelty was responsible for his success as a military leader. "Yes, Malik."

"Good. Now go. Laila will need those cloths."

"Laila?"

"Yes, that is what I've decided to name her. Do you agree?"

"Night beauty," he whispered turning the name over in his head and finding it perfect. Malik had a talent for naming the women he'd enslaved. Malik had named Marie, Jawna, the sun, a name befit for her golden and radiant beauty. Rosita was called Narwar, flower, and Rochelle was called Ameera, princess. There were also Buthayna, of beautiful and tender body, Nahid, one with full, round breasts, Rasha, young gazelle, and numerous other ones with equally fitting names. "It's very appropriate."

"I know." Malik grinned, looking absolutely delighted with himself. Gilberto wanted to wipe the smug look from Malik's face but he knew he had to wait. Patience, the time would come. For now, he could only give Malik a nod goodbye and head out the door to a waiting Sahib.

The two men strolled through the city where many works were under way. While Malik's rule was harsh and restrictive, the city had seen many astonishing improvements under the Moors. The city was reaching new brilliance. It was alive and exiting all at once. Trade and commerce was reaching new heights. Intellectuals from all lands were flocking into the city, enticed by the Moors love of learning, of knowledge and of intellect. New buildings of Arabic design and splendor were being erected. Canals and aqueducts were being repaired. Malik had even spoken of erecting a minaret, though while the Moorish armies were still sweeping across the land, those plans were put on hold.

Gilberto was glad today it was Sahib who Malik had chosen to accompany him. For company, he preferred Hassan, a gentle, visionary of a man, a great lover of knowledge, who opposed the taking of female slaves as concubines and with whom Gilberto could have numerous enlightened discussions. Hassan was a devout Muslim, and Gilberto could see the beauty of the religion through his eyes. Today, however, Gilberto wanted to get away and an afternoon with Hassan would not afford him the luxury.

Sahib, a small man with a large libido, had a tendency of wandering away or taking off to the harem Malik had built, or the brothel of pagan prostitutes run by a group of local Jews. The two men had an understanding. Sahib would leave Gilberto to himself and in return, Gilberto wouldn't tell Malik of Sahib's activities, not that Malik would care that Sahib visited either place. Malik would only care that Sahib left Gilberto to himself. Unlike all the other men enslaved by Malik, Malik tended to keep him close to the breast. He was treated far better, often times as one would treat an old friend. Malik was nearly as generous with Gilberto as he was with his women, and the similarities did not end there. Just as the women were kept close, so was Gilberto.

Going to the square with Sahib gave Gilberto the opportunity to shed some of the closeness Malik had imposed on him. It would also give him the opportunity to meet with some people he'd been hoping to meet before Malik had returned from Cordoba. He only had to lose his shadow, knowing that with Sahib, it would not take long.

The two men stopped and Gilberto waited patiently as Sahib bent to pray. All around him, other Muslims stopped to pray, each man facing the same direction while the other occupants of the city carried on with their activities. The first time he'd seen such a sight, such a large number of people stopping what they were doing to face the same direction and bow to worship, he'd been in Arabia with his father and the sight had left him breathless. The display was just as awe-inspiring today.

When Sahib had finished, they continued into the square. Gilberto took his time examining silks, watching for Sahib's attention to waver. Soon enough, Sahib began to fidget and glance in the direction of the brothel. "Dhakiy?"

"Yes?"

"How much longer are you going to be?"

"Some time yet, Sahib. Malik has asked for nothing but the finest for the new girl. It will take time to select those fabrics and weed them out from the others."

Sahib glanced down the street and back to Gilberto. "I'll be back in one hour. I expect that will give you enough time?"

"Indeed it will."

"One hour, Dhakiy."

"If I finish, I will wait for you here."

Sahib narrowed his eyes and left him with a stern look before turning and taking off down the street. Gilberto picked up some silks he'd already selected and purchased them. Once the transaction was complete, he wandered a couple of shops down, entering a small building and moving to the back. He opened a small trap door that led to a room hidden beneath the shop. All eyes were on him as he descended down the ladder, and he could see the relief on the occupants' faces when they realized it was only him.

"Gilberto, we weren't sure if you'd make it."

He nodded at the men gathered beneath the shop. The faces were filled with a mixture of anger and anxiety. They were in the middle of their discussion.

"Where are we on preparations?"

"Our supply lines have been blocked. The goods are coming in through another route. It'll be at least another month before they arrive."

"What about men?"

"They're out there. We've gathered several hundred. Once the supplies come in, we'll be ready to fight."

"Gentlemen," Gilberto interrupted, "let's not be rash. We aren't anywhere near ready to mount an opposition. The Moors have firm hold of the city and there are many of us who see the Moors as liberators and are helping them. We have too many factions and not enough unity. We need to centralize. It'll take more than a month to create a force unified enough to drive out the Moors. We have to plan for a year, not a month."

"And endure another year of servitude and of slavery? No, we have to act now."

"We have to weather the storm. Very few of us have been taken as slaves. Most of the city is thriving under the Moor's rule. I know the new tax and some of the new restrictions seem harsh, but surely, given your circumstances, you can endure for another year."

"Oh, because we haven't been taken as slaves we should endure because as a slave, you are prepared to? Some slave you are, wandering freely about the town. No Gilberto, you are not a slave; you are Malik's pet."

Gilberto glared at Sergio, then turned to the other men. "If we act too soon, the Moors will destroy us. Patience gentlemen, our day will come."

"Perhaps Gilberto is right. We don't want all of our hard work to come to nothing."

"Gilberto is an intelligent and well respected man. I value his insight just as the rest of you, but we haven't asked him to join us to offer us council. His job is to keep us informed of Malik's activities. What does Gilberto, a man of peace, know of war?"

"And who is to lead the fight, Sergio, you?"

"No, I am merely a merchant. The right leader will show through in the midst of battle. We can't wait for that leader to emerge before hand. The time to fight is now. The Moors aren't so powerful as they seem. It was only a year ago Christian forces succeeded in a victory in Covadonga. When the supplies come in, and Malik is caught unprepared, we will lead the fight together, but I will not wait and watch as the Moors kill and enslave more of our people."

Gilberto watched as the men around him nodded. He sighed, wondering what it would take to convince the men that it was too soon. He wanted Malik gone as much as any other man, but he knew they could not take Malik yet. They were short on organization and support. "Gentlemen, it would be foolish to act before we our time. Losing to the Moors would push back our resistance and it would take years to build it back up again. Malik will impose harsher restrictions as retaliation. The victory in Covadonga was made possible by the fighting and disunity of the Muslim forces there. Sevilla does not have that same advantage. Many improvements are being made to the city. The arts are flourishing and people of education are flocking to the city. Merchants and traders, men like you, are getting rich at the expanding trade. The people we formerly enslaved, but that were freed by the Moors would fight to oppose us. We've oppressed them for long enough and with the aid of the Moors, they will fight back. It is the same with the Jews. We treated them as harshly as the Moors are treating us and they are in support of the Moors. The actions of our leaders of the past have crippled our ability to mount popular support."

"Friends, that support is wavering. They have proven their rule to be far more oppressive than any of the people have seen before. When the time comes, the population will choose to side with their countrymen rather than with those barbarians."

The men around him were still nodding. There was nothing more he could do that day. He could only ask them to think about it. "Do you really believe that? Malik's rule is cruel and oppressive, and yet, people from all religions are still flocking to the city because of what the city has become. Malik has a strong hold of this city and a lot of the occupants are not countrymen, but people who we, ourselves, have enslaved, or people who have come to the city so be a part of the thriving arts and academic scenes. I only ask you to think before you decide to act."

"We will, Gilberto."

"Gilberto, what have to report on Malik's activities?"

"He had just returned from Cordoba."

"So, he is back."

"So soon?"

"Yes, just this morning, and as he has just returned, I expect he'll be about the town, making sure we all remember the power he wields. I'd tread carefully over the next couple of weeks."

"Has he returned from Cordoba with anything we should be aware of?"

Gilberto shook his head. "No, as far as I am aware of, he has only returned with a new slave, a young girl."

The men all bowed their heads. A couple of the men made the sign of the cross. Gilberto followed the action, closing his eyes. He knew the men weren't only thinking of the new girl, but also of Marie. They hadn't met the young beauty, but Gilberto had told them of her death. Perhaps speaking of it had been a mistake. It had only served to deepen their anger and cause them to want to act in greater haste than they'd been preparing to act in before.

After a few more moments of silence, Sergio spoke up. "It is unfortunate for the girl, but perhaps it is a good thing. Maybe this girl will be the distraction we need. If she proves difficult, Malik's vanity will certainly cause him to turn his attention to bringing her under his control."

Gilberto shuddered, noticing the other men do the same, yet none of them disagreed. Malik would be consumed with making the girl submit, and from what Gilberto had seen, she would not submit easily. It was a horrid thought, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He could try to intercede, but as well as Malik often treated him, if he were to go against Malik, Malik would think nothing of knifing him. It was not death that he feared, only that his death would be in vain.

"Let us not speak of that right now." Gilberto looked over at Cruz and sent him a look of gratitude. Around the room, the men nodded. Gilberto had seen what Malik did to women who resisted and he didn't want to think of it. Women who submitted were rewarded with all of Malik's abundant generosity, charm and charisma, but those women who defied him saw a very different Malik. Cruz nodded in reply before his voice perked up and he spoke jovially, "Shall we end it here, friends? I'm sure Gilberto must be on his way before Sahib returns from bedding the pagans. Am I correct, Gilberto?"

The men laughed and he nodded, though not with the same mirth the others displayed. It saddened him the way the men were amused with Sahib's antics. Somehow it was okay for the pagans to be forced into sexual servitude, but if it happened to Christian women, the men were up in arms. He sighed. "Cruz is correct. I must be on my way."

"We'll continue on with the preparations and meet again in one month. Will we know where our supplies are at that time?"

"We should"

"Good. Gilberto, you'll keep us updated on Malik's plans and activities?"

"As always."

"Alright, and if we need to send word, we all know what to do."

The men all nodded and began moving about. Gilberto walked over to the trap door. "Goodbye gentlemen."

Gilberto arrived back where Sahib had left him, finding himself fortunate Sahib had not arrived back early. There was still time to look around for more silks for the girl Malik had named Laila. He purchased a sarong and a scarf she could wear immediately, staring into the eyes of the shop keeper in silent understanding. The shop keeper would say nothing of his absence. Gilberto then spoke to a tailor, arranging to for the tailor to come to Malik's and measure the girl for clothing. Next to the shop, a vendor was selling jewelry. Gilberto selected a bracelet and an anklet for Malik to gift to the girl. Sahib joined him as he made the purchases. "Have you got everything?"

"I have."

"Good. Did you enjoy your shopping?" Sahib's voice held a hint of mockery, but it was the grin on Sahib's voice and the way the question was inflected that showed that Sahib was really waiting for Gilberto to ask of how Sahib's afternoon went.

"I did. Did you enjoy your time on the town?"

Sahib's grin spread across his face, showing off his yellow teeth. His eyebrows moved up and down in quick succession. "It was a very pleasurable afternoon. One day I will take you with me and you will enjoy those pleasures as well."

"Much gratitude, but no, Sahib. I leave that to you."

"You're not…?" Sahib eyed him suspiciously.

"No."

"Ah," Sahib's voice turned conspiratorial, "then you have your own woman hidden away." Gilberto said nothing in return. Sahib eyed him again. "She better not be one of Malik's."

"No, Sahib, I have not a woman anywhere. I would just prefer the woman want to make love to me."

Sahib laughed, shaking his head. "You are a very humorous man, Dhakiy. I know now why Malik speaks of you so."

Again Gilberto said nothing. By the time they'd returned to the palace Malik had built, Sahib had his arm slung across Gilberto's shoulders and he was still laughing.


	26. The Spaniard, II

**The Spaniard, II**

Sara eyed the door carefully, glancing between it and the two women hovering over her. She was waiting for something, anything to distract them. She'd thought she found that distraction when the door opened and a man she hadn't seen before peeked in, but they'd only just met eyes before he closed the door again.

She'd flown at the door twice already. The first time she'd been dragged back to the bed, kicking and flailing. When her fist had connected with one woman's jaw and her foot to the other's ribs, two men had come in and helped the two women drag her back to the bed. Even then she'd put up a fight. The second time she went at the door, the women let her go. Any questions she had about such behavior were answered when she found the door bolted shut. She tried shaking it, pounding her fists on it, even throwing herself against it, but the door wouldn't budge. Only then had she flung herself on the bed and began crying into her elbow.

The women, though whispering soft words of reassurance, were of no comfort to her. "It's not so bad," they had said. _Not so bad_? She'd been taken from her home, from the farm she and her brothers had grown up on. Her family, when they'd tried to protect her, had been killed. She'd watched as her father and her two brothers had their chests sliced open and her mother, kneeling on the dirt, begging and pleading, was left to witness the terrible scene. Sara could still see the image running uninterrupted over and over in her mind. She could still smell the blood and hear her mother's screams. Now, apparently, she was to be some mistress to the most powerful man in Sevilla. She couldn't do it; she couldn't. She wouldn't.

It was only after the man peeked in that the women had paused in their speaking. Once the door closed, they continued on. Sara tried not to listen to the women describe how royally the master would treat her. The woman who called herself Rochelle but insisted on being called Ameera in front of the master, spoke of how lucky Sara was to be taken by a man so generous and so handsome. She also spoke of learning the Qu'ran and converting to Islam so that she would gain her freedom and marry their master. Sara couldn't fathom it. The other woman, Rosita, or Narwar, or whatever Sara was supposed to call her, spoke of how lucky Sara was to be bought by him for the palace rather than shipped off to his homeland as a concubine for the Muslim soldiers. She saw Rosita trying to offer comfort, telling her it was better to accept her life as it was. She saw the pain in Rosita's eyes as Rosita spoke, the pain laced within Rosita's words. Rosita was really saying that it would be easier to just accept it.

Sara let the tears dry up, ignoring the women's words. She tried to think. There had to be a way out. She just had to think. The women stopped talking. They eyed her and she eyed them in return. Her eyes dared them to speak, but it seemed they'd run out of reassurances, or they were saving them lest she should begin crying again. She was thankful for the quiet.

The room was silent for what Sara figured to be the greater part of an hour. Feeling tired, she decided to let herself get a little sleep and regain some of that energy she'd spent earlier. If she wanted to escape, she'd need the energy. Taking a pillow, and scrunching it up, she laid her head down.

The door flew open and Sara jumped up, sitting on the bed and staring at the figure in the doorway. She'd seen him briefly before, when he purchased her, and when he sat next to her just before she was transported. When she first saw him, he stared at her and his eyes lit up. His leer caused her stomach to turn. She'd looked away before really looking at him. Later, in the short moments he'd sat beside her in the wagon, he spoke softly to her, running the tip of his knife up her leg, pushing the hem of her skirt all the way up her thigh and exposing the garments beneath. She'd tried to jump from the wagon, but he'd caught her and tied her to it. He'd continued to edge up her skirt with his knife and she had only been able to hold her breath, biting her lip and looking away, not letting him see the fear in her eyes. When she did look up, she flashed him a quick look of hate and of anger that had made him smile and her turn away. Now, as he stood in the doorway, she allowed herself to look, studying him with hate filled eyes.

He was, she admitted with great reluctance, handsome, dark and handsome and very imposing. His eyes were dark and deep and intense. He had a fine build, not large but certainly fit. He had a muscular chest and very powerful, muscular arms. Had he not been who he was, she might have found him attractive. His eyes though, cruel and self-absorbed, lavaciously looking her up and down, turned her stomach and made her ill. He was staring at her from the doorway and she swallowed, wondering how he would channel all his power.

"Laila," he whispered, his voice soft. Sara looked at him, then between the two women, confused. Neither of them had addressed themselves as Laila.

"Narwar, Ameera, مضى,!"

The two women scurried past him, out the door. Sara continued to stare as he closed it behind them.

He turned back to her, stepping closer. She backed up, scooting to the head of the bed and finding she couldn't move back any further. He stepped closer again, dropping a pile of material she didn't even realize he was holding. Then, he was on the bed, sitting just in front of her. "Laila," he spoke softly. His hand came up and she stared at his powerful arms, fear stopping her from slapping his hand away as it moved towards her.

His fingers played with the strands of her messy hair, tucking those errant strands behind her ear. His hand moved to the back of her neck, his fingers combing through her hair. Sara flinched.

"You are nervous." He spoke in broken Spanish, the first Spanish she'd heard him speak. She said nothing in reply.

Feeling him shift closer, Sara pressed her back against the head board. He removed his hand from her neck, drawing his index finger down the side of her face, his nail scraping along her cheek. She shivered, closing her eyes, willing it all to be a horrible dream.

"You are so beautiful, Laila." His words were soft, reverent and she shuttered. "Open your eyes."

Sara kept her eyes closed, knowing the moment she opened them, she'd have to acknowledge that it was real. The gentle tone scared her more than if he'd spoken in anger. She squeezed her eyes shut and began counting, hoping the recital of numbers would distract her mind from his touch.

"I said, open your eyes!" His voice boomed loudly and her eyes opened automatically. She stared at him, wide-eyed, hoping the fear didn't show. "Malik," he said, pointing to his chest.

"Malik," she whispered in return, finding her voice hoarse.

Malik smiled and nodded. "Laila," he spoke, pointing at her, his finger poking her chest, then running over the top of her breast. She slapped his hand away. He smiled and ran his finger over her breast again. She shivered and closed her eyes again. Her hand clenched and unclenched. She was about to slap away his wandering digit again, but he withdrew it. Then his hand moved between her legs, pressing his middle finger in and drawing his hand up, keeping his finger pressed down. Sara jumped from the bed. Malik laughed and stood. He pointed at the pile of material he'd dropped on the bed. "New cloths. Tonight you will wear them."

Sara stood by the wall, watching him and waiting for him to move towards him again. A wave of relief rolled through her when he turned and walked out the door. She listened for the lock, her hopes dashing when she heard it turn.

Food was delivered to her in her room. Starving, she inhaled the dish, choking on some of the foreign spices. A woman came in and took the plate, but other than that, she was undisturbed. She spent her time surveying the room, searching for a way to escape. There was nothing. She had to get through that door.

Time passed slowly, with her staring at the door. Suddenly, and completely unexpectedly, it swung open. Malik stood in the entrance. His faced turned red when he looked at her on the bed and he slammed the door shut. "Cloths, he bellowed, pointing at the pile on the bed.

Sara looked at the pile of cloths, then at Malik. Having gained a little courage in the past hours, knowing she'd need it, she stood, glaring at him, and throwing the cloths onto the floor. She would not wear the cloths of a sex slave.

Malik walked to the bed, picking up a sarong and running his hand along it. "Beautiful cloths for a beautiful girl."

"No," she spoke, shaking her head slowly, standing and backing against the wall.

Malik turned to her, grabbing onto her arm and with a force that surprised her, threw her onto the bed. He ripped the blouse from her bodice, exposing her breasts. Her fists flew up at him, hitting his forearms and pushing him off of her, but he seemed unaffected. His hands pulled her skirt down, breaking the clasp in the back. He stood, scooping up the cloths he'd ripped off of her and exited the room.

Sara looked at the sarong he'd dropped, and at the other pieces of fabric she'd thrown on the floor. Given her only other option was nudity, Sara decided she'd have to wear them. Reluctantly, she tied the cloths around her body, covering up what Malik had exposed, but finding her mid-section uncomfortably bare. She sat on the bed, shaking and stewing. By the time Malik entered again, she was ready to fight.

When the door opened again, Sara flew at it. She pushed Malik, hitting him with everything she had. She fought and clawed, banged her fists against his chest and tried to get past him. He stood, blocking the doorway, and when she looked up at his face, his eyes were intense and he was smiling. Suddenly, she was thrown against the wall. Her wrists were pinned and his leg came in between hers, forcing itself in and holding her in place. His leg pushed in further, his thigh rising and pressing against her as he leaned into her. She tried knocking her head against his, but he swiftly avoided the blow. He pressed his leg harder against her. She felt his knee come up under her privates, rubbing hard and pushing against her. She bit down hard on his shoulder, drawing blood. He retaliated by slamming her wrists against the wall and kneeing her sensitive area. A wave of pain rolled through her, causing tears to fill her eyes. One of his hands released her wrist, grabbing her beneath the jaw and pushing up on it. Her head tilted back, pressed painfully against the wall with the force of his hold. His fingers dug into her jaw. Her free hand pounded at his back. She grabbed at his hand, trying to claw it off of her, but he kept pushing up on her jaw and pressing his knee up into her. He bit down on her, where neck meets shoulder. The pain was temporary as something more frightening was occurring. She could feel him on her leg, growing harder against her as he rubbed up and down. His thigh kept pushing up, drawing out the pain.

Malik pushed his upper body away from her, look intently down at her. His hand was still gripping her jaw and pushing her head against the wall. Her hand was still clawing at his. He yelled something in a language she couldn't understand, staring at her. He let go of her jaw, gripping her upper arm and throwing her onto the bed. He turned to close the door, slamming it, and she flew at him again. She fought hard, but with little effort, he threw her back onto the bed, climbing on top of her.

His weight pinned her to the bed. He let her arms fly free as he pawed her breasts, fighting off the continuing attacks from her fists. His fingers dug in through the material he'd forced her to wear, kneading painfully. Lifting himself a little, he pushed his pants down and opened her sarong, ripping away the undergarments she wore beneath, then rubbing his palm hard against her.

Sara gasped, hitting him and pushing at him with all that was left of her strength, clawing at him and scratching him, but he grabbed her wrists and pushed them into the bed. Energy spent, she continued to fight, but could not strike much of a blow. In one quick and painful motion, he slammed into her, past her clenched muscles, the pain so immediate and intense, it caused her to cry out. When he didn't move, she opened her eyes and stared into his. He was smiling, an uncomfortable, knowing smile, and she knew that he knew he'd taken something very precious from her. She turned her head, looking to the side, still struggling as he moved in and out, slowly pulling out of her only to slam hard into her again. When he was finished, she felt him pull out of her. He rested on top of her, but she had no strength left to fight. She could only cry from the pain. Finally, he stood, pulling up his garments and walking out of the room. Leaning over the side of the bed, Sara threw up. Catching a glimpse of the blood between her legs, she threw up again. She wiped the vomit from the sides of her mouth, curled up and cried until she fell asleep.


	27. The Spaniard, III

**The Spaniard, III**

Sara was locked in the room for a week. Her food was brought to her and her empty plate removed when she was finished. A tailor came and measured her, and new clothing was brought to her, but even then, she wasn't allowed to leave the room. Rosita would take her out to bathe her or let her relieve herself, but she had no other freedoms. When she did go out, Sara made sure to study her surroundings, the layout of the palace, searching for possible exits and opportunities to make her escape.

In those precious few minutes a day, Sara met some of the other women, noting how Rosita seemed to be the mother of the group though Rosita was only a young woman herself. She saw men with the same skin tone as her captor, coming and going, talking with Malik. A couple of those men would always accompany her and Rosita, making escape impossible. Still, her eyes kept searching for an opportunity.

It was another man she often saw, that caught her eye. Young, a few years younger than Malik, she guessed, though also a few years older than her. The mysterious man, who'd peeked in on her that first day, seemed to always be around. She often saw him speaking in hushed tones with Rosita, leaning in close to Rosita's ear, searching Rosita's eyes and offering subtle grasps of Rosita's arms. She wondered at the relationship. Clearly he was someone Rosita trusted and cared about. He spoke the language of the other men, but unlike them, he shared her Spanish complexion. He looked to be a local. And while the other men looked at her with interest and disdain, she often caught him glancing at her sadly.

Malik visited her nightly. The first few nights seemed repeats of that very first one. She fought and Malik was rough. She'd curse him in Spanish and he'd yell at her in his native language. He was brutal and possessive, trying to pound ownership into her body, leaving it so sore, she'd cry through the night and find difficulty in walking the next day. She'd search her room for something to hide in her hand and injure Malik with during his visits, but her searches came up empty. On the fourth night she thought about Rosita and Rochelle and all the other girls. Those girls were able to move freely about the house. Malik trusted them. Sara knew if she wanted to escape, she had to gain Malik's trust. When Malik visited her that night, she forced herself to endure it and didn't fight back.

Malik became gentler. His wet, hot, sticky mouth on her was still very unwelcome. His breath on her face still made her sick. His touch still made her cringe. She still refused to help him, only lying on the bed and letting him take what he wanted, but she found she could endure his nightly rapes. She had to; escape depended upon it.

On her seventh night in the house, he gave her a bracelet and an anklet. The next day he let her out of the room, still keeping a close eye on her and having her accompanied everywhere, but he'd begun to relax. He left her alone for a couple of nights, and the night he returned again, he brought her more gifts. Not once, during that night, did he do anything that would cause her pain. She laid silently, biding her time.

*****

Gilberto had just returned from a trip to town with Sahib when he saw Malik storm past him and head straight to the new girl's room. He watched Malik carefully, ready to step in and stop Malik should Malik decide to let out the murderous rage. It had been quiet the better part of the week. It seemed the girl had begun to submit after suffering a few nights of Malik's brutality. Malik had been in good spirits, thinking he'd broken the girl into submission. Gilberto had been surprised that the girl with eyes so full of defiance, had begun to submit, but perhaps there was only so much pain a person could endure. Now, she was undoubtedly reaching that threshold again.

He could hear the crack of Malik's fist on her face and he winced. He moved to the door, but was stopped by Sahib eyeing his actions with contempt. Gilberto paused. He couldn't do anything to help the girl. Malik and Sahib would kill him before he had the chance. Then, Malik would punish the girl even further, stopping just short of killing her. Malik wouldn't kill her though, Gilberto knew with almost complete certainty. No, Malik would not kill what he prized so much, not before completely possessing her. Trying to interfere would only cause the girl more pain.

A sharp cry came out and Gilberto moved again. He could not stand and do nothing. Then the door opened and Malik stormed out, locking the door behind him. Malik shoved past Gilberto. "She will learn not to dare to try to escape." Malik grabbed onto Sahib, dragging the smaller man from the house, leaving Gilberto to stare. _She tried to escape? Probably didn't figure on the guards parked by each door and all over the grounds. _Gilberto stared at the door, shuddering to think about the punishment the townspeople would have to endure on account of Malik's fury.

The house was quiet. Malik's rage had resounded through the place, causing all the occupants to run for cover. Gilberto glanced around, his eyes finding the girl's locked door. Something was pulling him towards it. Memories of Marie and finding her beautiful, lifeless body, filtered into his mind. He let some unknown power guide him to the door. He glanced around again and unlocked the door, letting himself into the girl's room. The girl was lying on the bed, her body red and swelling, cuts bleeding. He winced at the sight of her. Closing the door, he swiftly moved to his room, retrieving a cloth. He then moved outside, wetting the rag with water. Reentering the house, he glanced around, noting with relief that nobody had dared come out yet. He opened the girl's door and slipped inside, softly closing the door behind him, hoping no one would know he'd entered.

Gilberto looked towards the bed, noticing the girl facing him. When he moved to the bed, she scurried back with all the strength he was sure she could muster. He sat down at the far end of the bed, extending the wet cloth to her. "Here," he spoke quietly in Spanish. He watched her study him with one slitted eye. The other eye was swollen shut. Slowly her hand came out and took the cloth from him. He marveled at her delicate fingers.

The girl dabbed at her face, wincing when the cloth hit the open abrasions. A tear fell from her slitted eye and Gilberto moved towards her. She lifted her palm to stop him, but her merely took the cloth from her and gently dabbed at her face. He watched as her skin continued to swell. Her wrist had an angry red ring around it, and he guessed that Malik had ripped the bracelet from her. His thumb ran softly over her wrist and she pulled her hand away.

"I'm sorry."

Again she eyed him through the slit in her eye. "What's your name?"

"Gilberto."

"You're from here?"

"Yes."

She cocked her head. "But you speak their language?"

"I speak many languages. My father was a trader. I used to accompany him on his trips."

"I've seen you around Malik. What business do you have with him?"

He smiled softly. "Malik keeps me close. The Moors like educated men. They're borrowing from other cultures to enrich their own. I suppose it is no different with Malik."

"You're educated?"

"I was studying in Rome when the Moors moved into this country."

"And you came back?"

"The academic enticements were there for me to return. I thought I could continue to be educated and serve my countrymen in one place. I cannot serve my people from abroad. I do what I can here; try to use my influence on Malik."

She nodded closing her battered eye and he closed his eyes as well. Her movements were so full of pain and he wondered how it was possible to be so drawn in. "What's your name?"

Her eye opened again and looked up at him. "Sara."

"Sara," he whispered, the name being etched forever into his memory. They were both silent. He stared at the bloody cloth in his hands. "Sara, Malik could kill you if you try to escape again."

"Good. If he catches me again, I hope he does kill me."

"It will be worse. Malik will rape you until he's satisfied that you've submitted to him, and if you cross him again, you can only hope he kills you."

"He's already doing that. It can't get any worse."

"It can…" he paused, staring at Sara, his heart beating in a strange, irregular way. "It can get so much worse." He took a deep breath, knowing he had to tell her what could happen, wishing he could spare her the knowledge. "He'll hurt you again and again. He can also decide to sell you, shipping you away to a place where you'll be expected to bed not just one man, but several men, several times a day."

"I will not let anybody own me." Even with one eye swollen shut and the other in nearly the same position, he could still see the defiance. His heart twisted, confusing him and he had to rub his chest.

"Then, the only thing I can suggest is to convert or pretend to. A Muslim cannot enslave another Muslim. Even Malik couldn't do that."

"He'll take me as his wife instead."

Gilberto shook his head. Malik might, given the way he prized her beauty. It would be one way to still possess her. Yet, Malik had remained happily unattached, bedding only the women he took as concubines. "It's possible, but I don't think that he would. Malik has yet to take any wives."

"Rochelle said…"

"Rochelle has been wooed by the items Malik has given to her. She doesn't understand that she's much more valuable to him as a concubine than as a wife. If she converts, I believe he'll cast her aside, knowing he succeeded in one thing. One of the objectives of the Moors is conversion. I can help you. I can teach you some Arabic. It's a beautiful language really. The script flows with magnificence. I can familiarize you with the Qu'ran."

"If you can help me, why haven't you converted?"

Gilberto dropped his head. "That is not something I could do."

"But you could ask me to?"

He shook his head. "I could only offer to help you."

"You're a man of strong convictions…" she trailed off.

Gilberto nodded. "Yes. I cannot deny God, even if St. Peter himself could."

"Then don't ask me to do what you, yourself cannot."

He smiled softly, feeling pulled in by her. She was so strong, in the face of everything, a martyr. _So much like Marie, yet stronger, more determined. _"How old are you, Sara?"

"Fifteen."

He shook his head sadly. "You are too young to know this pain."

She dropped her head. He watched as tears ran down her swollen cheek. Without thought, his thumb moved up and brushed away the tears. "I must go before people start moving about the place again and someone finds me in here." Sara looked as though she wanted to stop him, but he just shook his head. "It'll only be worse for you if they do. I know you don't want to hear this, Sara, but I beg you to wait. Trying to escape will only cause you more pain. Malik's time will come. Let not he take your life before it does."

Sara said nothing. Gilberto gave her fingers a light squeeze before standing up and moving towards the door. He listened for sounds outside, and when he didn't hear any, he slipped quietly from her room.


	28. The Spaniard, IV

**A/N:** I really feel like I have to apologive in advance and give a little warning for this chapter. It's going to be graphic.

**The Spaniard, IV**

She'd gone back to being passive. The first couple of nights, Malik took her body with punishing roughness. When she still didn't resist, he began to ease, showing a more gentle side. She knew that he thought he'd broken her spirit and her vacant stares while he pumped in and out of her did nothing to diminish those ideas.

It took only a few days for Malik to let Sara about the house again. Just as before, she began to quietly scan her surroundings, looking for an opportunity to escape. She noticed Gilberto stealing glances at her, softness in his eyes, and she knew her swelling was going down and her so-called beauty was returning. However, unlike the other men's salacious glances that she'd become used to seeing, Gilberto's glance was more of pleading, and while she could ignore all the other looks from all the other men, she could not banish his gaze from her thoughts. For reasons unknown to her, they stayed firmly entrenched in her mind.

The first opportunity to escape, a quiet house and a slip out the door, came and past. A moment had presented itself, but the look in Gilberto's eyes had stopped her, though she was more than hesitant to admit that it was the reason. No, she told herself it was the numerous guards around the grounds that made her hesitant. When Malik continued to come to her room each night, licking her face, cupping her privates and pawing at her breasts with those hands that sickened her, she vowed not to let another opportunity go to waste. She tried to escape again, getting caught by a small, lecherous man, whose hands 'accidentally' grabbed her in places only Malik had dared to touch before. She'd slapped at the man's hands and shot him warning glares, spinning her head to face him, but he'd only drug her into her room and locked her inside.

Sara searched desperately for something to fight with but before she could get very far in her search, Malik came in, red faced and eyes full of hatred. Sara thought of fighting him bare handed, but the murderous look he sent her stopped her in her tracks. She watched him glance about the room and it gave her hope that the room would provide even the briefest distraction. She eyed him again before diving at the knife hanging from his belt, but he grabbed her before she could reach it and threw her onto the bed. His hand came across her face, back handing her and causing a tingling pain to course through her. He grabbed her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head. She struggled, but he was too strong. His knee came down hard between her legs, spreading them. With his free hand, Malik withdrew his knife and traced the tip over her belly. She watched with wide eyes, unable to disguise her fear, as the tip of the knife moved lower, finding her privates. At the feel of the cool blade circling and tracing over her, she hissed loudly. The knife crawled up along her opening and she sucked in a breath, slamming her eyes shut and waiting for the inevitable pain.

The knife circled again and again, and Sara waited, her body held rigid by the terror Malik's actions were creating. He moved it along her opening again before tracing it back up to her stomach. She let the air move from her lungs, twisting her body in an attempt to break free. When Malik slit her just above her hip, she choked on her gasp. Blade pressed against her stomach, Malik entered her, pounding into her furiously. Pain coursed through her body. She couldn't breath, choking on the air that tried to fill her lungs. She waited for the pain to end, finding she could only breathe again after Malik had pulled out of her.

Malik curses as he finished startled her. The abuse on her body had not managed to quell his anger. Sara stared up at him, watching as he turned the knife in his hand and slammed the handle against her opening. She cried out in pain as Malik's curses of the knife handle's wide iron knob echoed through the room. He threw the knife towards the door and pushed off her. Sara's mind told her to get to the knife and kill him with it, but the devastating pain between her legs and on her abdomen would not allow her to move. She could only grasp at a pillow on the bed and hold it to her wound, slowing the trickle of blood.

Sara tried to move, to get up again and again, but the pain was too intense. She felt helpless as she watched Malik circle the room, picking up and putting down several objects before returning to the bed, holding a brush by the hairs so that the large handle stuck out.

Malik ripped the bloodied pillow from her fingers and spit into her wound. She bit her lip to stop from crying out at the stinging sensation, and when Malik quickly slammed the handle of the brush into her, she bit harder, drawing blood. The pain was so intense, Sara could not stop the tears from streaming down her face. He pulled the brush out, slamming it back into her again and again, the wood scraping and splintering along her walls. She cried out but made no sound, pushing her wrists up and feeling his hand drive them back down. With all her energy and requiring great effort, she tried lifting a leg to push him off of her, but the attempt only caused Malik to slam the object in even harder.

It continued on for longer than she thought possible. Malik showed no signs of slowing down, instead punishing her more and more with each thrust of the brush into her. He began to twist the object inside her on each thrust, amplifying the pain as the splintered wood cut away inside of her. Her body was using all of its energy to fight the pain and she had none left to fight him. Malik continued to slam the object into and out of her until the pain finally became too much to bear and she passed out.

Sara awoke to light touches above her hip. Her eyes flickered open and she saw Gilberto sitting over her. His eyes were on his task as he dabbed her stomach with a wet cloth. Though he was gentle, the cloth stung and she let out a whimper, alerting him to her return to consciousness. His hand came through her hair, soothing her as he whispered softly. His thumb ran lightly over her cheek and she knew it was swelling up again, though she couldn't feel the sharp pain that accompanied the last round of swelling on her face.

She watched, wide-eyed, as Gilberto leaned down over her. Her stomach clenched and fear coursed through her, but she was in too much pain to move. His fingers brushed away the hair clinging to her forehead and she allowed herself to relax into his touch. Unlike Malik's touch, Sara found comfort in Gilberto's. His movements were not of possession, but of comfort. His soft motions were soothing, and when Gilberto's hand withdrew, Sara found herself craving his touch.

With great effort, Sara managed to lift her arm. Her fingers landed lightly on Gilberto's forearm, clasping it with her weak grip. He looked down at her with startled eyes and she gave him a watery, but reassuring smile. His palm found her cheek again. "Oh Sara, I beg you not to try to escape again. I promise I'll try to find a way to get you out of here. Please, give me a little time. I will think of something."

She saw the tears in his eyes. It required too much energy to lift her hand as high as his face so she only nodded, slowly and deliberately, staring into his eyes as she did so. His hand moved from her cheek, traveling lightly down her body to her stomach. His thumb trailed delicately over the line of dried blood still present on her cut. She closed her eyes, feeling the pad of his thumb trace her disfigurement. When he sighed softly, she opened her eyes, watching as he stood. "Sara, I must go, but I promise to find a way to get you out of this."

He turned and left before she could respond.

*****

The images of Marie's pale figure lied sprawled across the floor were fading from his mind. New images of Sara, beaten and cut, had replaced them. As captivating as he'd found Marie, he never felt pulled in the way he'd already felt pulled in by Sara. He'd done the unthinkable; he'd fallen in love with one of Malik's girls, and not just any one, but the one Malik wanted to possess more than anything. It was a dangerous and deadly, but Gilberto knew he'd do anything to protect her.

Gilberto managed to keep Malik from Sara for three nights after Malik's brutal assault of her body. Malik had been furious, wanting to show Sara that he owned her, but Gilberto managed to subdue Malik, arguing that Sara's body needed to heal, and the reprieve would give her time to think about her situation. Thankfully Malik had listened, and instead of entering Sara's room each night and causing more harm to her body, he took Chantal to his.

It was with enormous guilt that Gilberto watched Chantal being summoned to Malik's room night after night. Chantal was only a child of twelve. Though she was thin, she still had traces of baby fat rounding her delicate face. Her body was only just beginning to shape, making her even more desirable to Malik than she'd been two years before when she was first taken from her home in the Gaul. Gilberto knew Malik took special pleasure in bedding the child he'd adoringly named Buthayna because of the tenderness of her young and delicate body. As far as Gilberto had heard, Malik had never been anything but gentle with her, in part because of her youth and in part because she'd never fought back. She'd been so young at the time of her captivity, too young to resist or even know to resist, and now, now it was a part of her life and she knew no other way. Gilberto only hoped that Malik's anger with Sara would not cause him to treat Chantal any differently than he'd treated her before.

In the meantime, Gilberto had to stop himself from checking on Sara, knowing that after his appeals to Malik to leave her be for a time, it would not be wise to see her himself. Instead, he had Rosita check on her. Rosita always gave him warning glares, but she also always told him honestly how Sara was doing and it was with heart aching sadness that he had to hear of her pain. In his spare moments away from Malik, he was consumed with trying to find a way out for Sara. He'd only been able to come up with her conversion to Islam, but he knew Sara would never do it and as a devout Christian, he could never ask. If he couldn't be with her in this life, he wanted her in the afterlife. The only other option that had crossed his mind was for Sara to marry, but Malik would never allow it to happen, so that idea was quickly tossed aside. Thoughts of murdering Malik even wandered through his anxious brain, knowing that killing Malik, in the time of war, would be just, but Malik was an excellent fighter, and very fast with his knife. Gilberto would be dead before he could move to strike a blow and Sara would be punished for the attempt. Besides, killing Malik wouldn't solve anything. Malik had surrounded himself with a loyal but cruel group of men, any number of which, Nijad, Imran, Amid, would step in and fill Malik's vacant place, not only inheriting the power, but inheriting Malik's concubines as well.

A couple days after Malik's vicious assault on Sara, Hassan had Gilberto accompany him into town. Though he remained by Hassan's side, Gilberto managed to make discrete inquiries with certain townspeople, searching in vain for a way to liberate Sara from Malik. If he could get her into town, past all the guards and soldiers surrounding Malik's home, she could not hide in any place for any length of time. Still, he made the inquiries, cataloguing each response or suggestion away for a time he would be able to use it.

The walk back to the palace began quietly as Gilberto's heart was too heavy for words. He noticed Hassan glancing at him sideways, a sympathetic look crossing his features. "Gilberto, what is it? Speak freely."

_Gilberto_. Hassan was the only Moor he knew to use his given name. He turned to Hassan. "How can you be a part of all of this? How can you stand by and watch Malik enslave girl after girl, rape them, take them to his bed and force them to submit to him night after night?"

Hassan sighed. "Gilberto, you know I do not agree with everything that goes on, that the enslavement of women for such purposes bothers me a great deal, but it is a part of conquest and it has gone on far before the Moors moved into your country. Did the Greeks not sack city after city, killing the men and enslaving the women for the same purposes? Did not the Romans? Did not Visigoths enslave the Spanish people and force them into the army? Maybe it shouldn't be a part of warfare and of life, but it is, Gilberto. There is nothing I can do to change that."

"How can you be a part of it?"

"Gilberto, I came here to spread our civilization to you, to bring education and culture, to study your culture and enrich our own. Not every Muslim here is an Arab leader or a Berber fighter. You have so much to offer, and when the fighting stops, I firmly believe the brutalities will as well. This city, which has already begun to thrive under our culture, will become a haven for intellectuals, for writers of poetry and of love, for culture. Our two cultures will merge together and form an even greater one, just as my Arabic culture had merged with the Persian and the Persian had merged with the Greek before. I'm not ignoring the bad, Gilberto, but looking forward to all the good that will come, for both our people."

Gilberto said nothing. Even Hassan, gentle Hassan, would do nothing to help. Gilberto walked back to the palace, to think and plan and try to keep Sara safe until he could come up with a way to free her.

*****

On the fourth night after Sara's second escape attempt and Malik's subsequent vicious attack on her, Malik tried entering Sara's room again, pushing past Gilberto out of the way to get at the door. It was with wide eyes that Gilberto watched Rosita turn Malik away, a small hand on his chest and her expression hard and insisting. Rosita was standing her ground and Malik looked ready to strike. Gilberto glanced between the two, ready to step in should Rosita need the help. Rosita did not. There was something in her eyes that had managed to stop Malik cold and Malik dropped the hand he'd raised in his preparation to strike. "Not tonight Malik; her body needs time to heal."

Malik glared at Rosita with malice in his eyes. Gilberto took a step forward as Malik's voice rose in anger. "Who are you to stop me? She is mine, Narwar, just as you are. Her body is here to serve me. I will take from it when I choose."

"You have fourteen other concubines. Let her body heal so that it can offer you the pleasure you deserve. Let one of us pleasure you until that time comes."

Malik stared at Rosita, and then turned and left, greatly surprising Gilberto, who could only watch Malik's retreating form. Rosita nodded at Lise, another of the girls, who'd been standing on the stair, watching the scene and unable to move. Lise nodded in return and followed after Malik. Gilberto waited until all other unfortunate onlookers cleared and then approached Rosita, his voice low. "Thank you."

"For what?" Her tone was unknowing, but Gilberto could see in her eyes, she knew what he was thanking her for. Those same eyes also told him that the conversation was over, and he had to let it pass. He only nodded at her, letting her know that he understood. She nodded in return. He moved to leave, but glanced at the door. In a soft voice he asked, "How is she?"

"She is still very sore. She has asked about you."

"She has? What has she asked?"

"She has asked about you as a man. I told her that you were a learned man, a gentle man, a passionate man, and an honest one."

He stared at Rosita. "Rosita…I…"

She stopped him with a hand up before he could continue. "I also told her it was dangerous to think of you and it would be wise to keep her distance from you."

Gilberto nodded. His attraction to her, his love for her, was a very dangerous thing. He wanted to ask if he could see her, if only for a moment, to say goodbye to a love that couldn't be and to let her know that he was doing as he promised, trying to find a way out for her, but he stopped himself. "Please Rosita, continue to care for her." Rosita nodded. He sent one last long, lingering glance towards Sara's door, before he turned and left.

*****

Malik was pacing. The night with Lise had only temporarily quelled his anger. He moved about the large room with jerky movements, pausing for moments to face Gilberto and speak. "Dhakiy, what good is a concubine if you can't make love to her?"

Gilberto was trying to control his emotions as he sat and watched Malik. His voice was even when he responded. "Your point was made strongly, Malik. If you have made it as strongly as I suspect, then her body needs time to rest."

"No, no, I get her when I choose, and I feel as if I haven't had her yet. She has not let me love or worship her body. She has yet to respond to mine. I haven't yet been able to take her to my bed. It is different in my bed, more sacred, where making love is an art. It is only mildly enjoyable when she doesn't cooperate, because at least she's responding. But I like for them to respond with fear and with anger for only a short while. It is enjoyable, but not as enjoyable as when the woman is in the act with you. When she does cooperate, she is no better than a doll. It is boring."

"Malik, if you want a woman to respond like a lady, you have to treat her like one."

Gilberto's statement caused Malik to let out a hearty laugh. "Oh? And do you speak from experience, Dhakiy?"

"No, Malik, I'm afraid that I have little experience on that subject, but it stands to reason…"

Malik was shaking his head, still chuckling. "No, no, no, Dhakiy, first you must possess them, then you love them. The problem with Laila is that she does not understand that she is my possession. She refuses to be possessed."

Gilberto studied Malik, sensing an opportunity. Though frightened by the many ways Malik could react, he took it. "Perhaps Malik, she was not meant to be possessed."

"Dhakiy, all women are meant to be possessed, some as servants, some as wives and some as lovers."

"Some are meant to be free. From what you say, I suspect you will never possess her and she will never let you love her. You will forever be bedding the doll, not the woman."

"She will respond!"

"Malik, it is time you accept that she will not. You will kill her first. Perhaps she is just too much trouble."

Malik stared at him. "I fear you are right. Tomorrow she dies."

Gilberto's eyes grew wide. He'd expected Malik's vanity would keep her alive, but he'd just made an argument to the contrary and unintentionally caused Sara further harm. "No, Malik," he pleaded, "no, you do not have to kill her. Let her go instead."

Malik laughed again, slapping Gilberto's back. "Ah, Dhakiy, I know that you hate death, but it is a part of life. A slave who defies her master must be killed."

"Malik, no. You said you loved her spirit. I know you would not want to kill that spirit. You can let her go."

"I cannot let go those who defy me or others will think they can do the same. She must be killed. I have to make an example of her."

"You don't, Malik, not that kind of example. You've already made an example of her, and of others before her." Gilberto was thinking fast, trying to undo the damage he'd caused. "Perhaps you can gift her, show the people what a generous ruler you are. Let someone take her as his wife. It will not hurt your pride, for you'll know that you had her first, and you gave her away."

"She is used. Besides, a Muslim cannot marry a non-Muslim, and I will not let any of my men have what I could not possess."

"Than let her marry a Christian."

The loud and throaty laugh escaping Malik's mouth echoed throughout the room. "Dhakiy, Christians breed other Christians and we cannot have that. It is one of the reasons the Qu'ran lets us have concubines, to satisfy their sexual needs so that they aren't tempted to breed with non-Muslims. Besides, I would be giving a Christian my prize. It would be worse."

Gilberto swallowed. He knew what he was about to say would ignite a strong reaction, but Malik had seemingly already decided Sara's fate, so there wasn't anything more to lose. Malik turned away from him, making it easier for him to speak. "Then gift her to me, Malik."

Malik spun around quickly and glared at him. "What did you say?"

He held Malik's eyes, never wavering. "Gift her to me. She'd stay in this house, still a slave, and you'd still own her."

Malik eyed Gilberto for one long, dreadful period. Gilberto watched as a thousand emotions passed through Malik's eyes. He sat completely still, watching, fearing he had sealed Sara's fate. Malik began to laugh and Gilberto let out a sigh of relief. The laughter stopped abruptly and Malik was eyeing him again. His voice was low. "You are a dangerous man, Dhakiy. I've always known it. You are too intelligent and too firm in your ideals, and because of that, I may have underestimated your cunning.

"I've kept you close, kept my eyes on you because of the danger you possess, but also for many other reasons. You are an amusing man, you offer me sound council, I value your intelligence and your mind, and you have taught me many valuable things, but I've always known you are dangerous. I had thought you were intelligent enough not to betray me or risk my anger, but I was mistaken. I've overestimated your intelligence and I've underestimated your cunning. You dare to ask me to gift to you a beauty I prize above all else? Did I not tell you how I would protect that prize?"

Gilberto said nothing. Malik's voice had started out controlled and even, and then began to rise with each sentence until there was no doubt about Malik's fury. Malik continued to stare at him, letting out a loud bellow, "Did I not, Dhakiy?"

"You did."

"And yet, you ask to take her from me! Why Dhakiy?" Malik paused for a moment, but Gilberto would not respond. Malik continued, his voice lowering for only seconds before it rose again. "You have said that you have little experience in the ways of loving a woman. Tell me, does your experience come from Laila? Have you bed her?"

He stared at Malik in disbelief, not about to respond to Malik's possessive tone.

"Answer me, Dhakiy!"

"No, Malik, I have not bed her."

Malik stared at him. Gilberto felt Malik's eyes searching for the truth or the lie in his. One of Malik's many talents was seeing the truth from the lies. Gilberto's look never wavered. Malik would see the truth and hopefully let all that happened that afternoon, pass, but Malik was not yet finished. "Have I not treated you well, as a brother and not as a slave?"

"You have, Malik."

Malik pulled out his knife. Gilberto watched as the curved blade glistened in the light. He was sure he was about to die, but if it spared Sara the same fate, he would take his death willingly.

The handle of the knife, held tightly in Malik's fist, came across Gilberto's face, hitting his cheek bone with punishing force. The blow stung and Gilberto's head swung back with the force, but he remained standing. He put his palm to his jaw, lightly touching his fingers to his cheek, turning his head to face Malik again.

"Why, Dhakiy? Why would you ask such a thing of me?"

"I only wanted to save the girl, Malik. You know I abhor death, especially the death of an innocent person."

Malik studied his eyes again and he prayed Malik would see the half truth for the truth. Malik struck him again, though the hit had not the same force as before. "She has defied me; she is not so innocent."

"You have stolen her innocence, and now you want to steal her life. I only wanted to save that life."

The next blow hit just above his temple, knocking him down. Malik stood over him, the tip of the knife pointed at his throat. "She is mine, Dhakiy! My prize!" Malik's foot came down hard on his stomach. "And I will possess her!"

Gilberto's eyes widened. While he'd been sure Malik would not let him live, suddenly he knew that he'd succeeded in getting Malik to let Sara live. Malik wasn't about to kill Sara, not before she gave herself completely over to Malik, and certainly not after. Gilberto only had to make sure of it and hope Sara would remain strong enough until she, herself, could find a way to escape. "She is yours, Malik, I know. You have taken her as yours and perhaps I was wrong when I said you would not possess her. Perhaps she needs only time to adjust."

"You were wrong. She is mine and soon she will realize it."

Malik's eyes were dark and held something that terrified him. "Don't hurt her, Malik. Give her time to adjust."

"No, she has had time. If she doesn't give herself completely over to me now, I will punish her and I will kill you."

The handle of Malik's knife across his face again was the last thing he felt before he blacked out.


	29. The Spaniard, V

**The Spaniard, V**

It was with overwhelming relief that Malik had stayed away from her those first few days. She'd thought he'd punish her daily, but the only person who had entered her room at all, apart from Gilberto that first day, was Rosita, who always attended to her with great care. She thought about Gilberto a great deal, sometimes wishing it was he who came through the door and not Rosita, but it was not to be. Gilberto was protecting her from afar.

When she didn't want to think of Malik anymore; when she didn't want to remember what was happening to her and when she wanted to bury all the bad and focus on what she knew was good, she thought of Gilberto some more, her feelings confusing her. She thought of his touch, soothing and gentle, light on her skin. She thought of his thumb brushing tenderly over the cut on her stomach, wishing his lips had followed his thumb. She so badly wanted to trace her hand across his features, mapping them out as he had hers. She yearned for him with an intensity that left her absolutely bewildered.

Her thoughts of Gilberto that afternoon were interrupted by Malik's voice, shouting violently in his own language, so loud, she was certain the entire palace could hear it. When the yells turned to silence, she quivered, a terrible feeling passing through her and welling up in her stomach. Some moments later, the door cracked open and she retreated to the far side of the room, fearing it was Malik. However, it was Rosita who entered and Sara was sure she'd never felt so relieved in her life. One look at the grave expression on Rosita's face and the relief disappeared. "Rosita, why are you looking that way?"

Rosita said nothing, leading Sara to fear the worst. Needing to know if the noise and Rosita's somber expression had anything to do with Gilberto, she whispered, "How is Gilberto?" Again, her question was met with silence. "Rosita, what has happened? Is it Gilberto?"

Rosita nodded and Sara felt herself giving way to grief, consuming and confusing her. She struggled with her next words, forcing them out in a voice less than a whisper. "What has happened?"

"He has crossed Malik." Rosita shook her head solemnly. "For you, he has crossed Malik and Malik has beaten him into sleep. He has yet to wake."

For her? It couldn't be true. Sara looked at Rosita and saw that it was. She studied Rosita carefully, trying to make something of the completely distraught look on Rosita's face. What was he to Rosita? She shook her head, ignoring the new fear that began to arise in her. "I need to see him."

"Hush, Sara, you cannot. Gilberto knew it was dangerous. I have told you it was dangerous. If Malik finds you with him, he will kill Gilberto and his punishment for you will be severe."

"Where is Malik now?"

"He has removed himself from the house, taking Nijad and Sahib with him."

Sara's eyes lit. "Then now is my chance. Please Rosita, take me to him." She pleaded, not only with desperation in her voice, but in her eyes as well. Rosita shook her head, but Sara's eyes continued to plead. Finally, Rosita sighed and nodded.

"Let me make certain the halls are clear first. Can you walk?" Sara nodded, waiting for Rosita to glance around outside the door. Rosita beckoned Sara with a wave of the hand and Sara followed Rosita quietly. Rosita let Sara into Gilberto's room, stopping Sara before she could move inside. "When I come for you, you must go." Sara nodded and Rosita released her, letting her in and closing the door behind her.

Once the door was closed, Sara flung herself at the unconscious figure on the bed. Her fingers traced over his swollen cheek and she was surprised to see it already giving way to color. Her touch moved over the lids of his eyes and without thought, her mouth followed, kissing each eyelid softly. Her hand combed through his hair and she began to weep, planting gentle kisses all over his face and gliding her fingers over his features. A hand grasped her wrist and she heard a quiet moan escape his lips. She sat up and gazed down at him as his eyes fluttered open and stared into hers. Why had she never before seen the beauty in them?

She wept more soundly and his hand released her wrist. His eyes softened and his thumb moved to her face, wiping the tears from her cheek. She leaned forward, unaware of what she was doing, but only knowing she was being drawn into him. She placed a tender kiss on the corner of his mouth, unable to stop from weeping.

"The kiss of life."

His voice was soft and gentle and she sobbed harder, peppering his face with kisses, unsure of what she was doing or if she should be doing it, but powerless to stop herself. His face turned while she was leaning to kiss his cheek and her mouth landed squarely on his. Startled, she backed away, but his lips followed upward, kissing her and taking her bottom lip between his. She stilled, watching his eyes close as he kissed with pent up longing and she found herself surrendering to it, following his mouth back down. When they separated, she was breathless. The tears had stopped and she stared down at him. His palm came up and softly drifted across her cheek before falling to her neck. Moving slowly and lightly, he ran his hand over the curve of her shoulder, staring up at her. "Sara, you shouldn't be here. It is too dangerous."

"I had to see you. I had to know you were alright."

Gilberto smiled softly, moving his hand lightly over her skin, taking her delicate fingers in his. "I am alright, but you must go."

"No, Gilberto, please. Rosita is watching out for us."

"I cannot risk it."

She couldn't leave. She wanted to care for him. She needed him. She needed to know love. "Please." Her hands moved down his body, slowly and gracefully removing his shirt in the process. Her fingers danced over his chest and she followed their movement with soft, lingering kisses.

Slowly Sara found herself being turned, pushed gently onto her back, and Gilberto was above her, gazing down at her with only tenderness and perhaps longing in his beautiful eyes. His lips met her forehead and she savored the feel of them, warm and soft on her skin. He kissed the corners of her eyes, where the tears had rested, and then lifted her fingers to his mouth, kissing the tips of her fingers. He let his lips linger on each one before moving his mouth to the palm of her hand.

His hands moved to her clothing and he stared down at her, the question written in his eyes. Her wide eyes gazed up at him and she swallowed, nodding her consent. Gilberto's fingers remained still and she lightly grasped his hands, helping him to remove the cloth from her chest. He gazed down at her and in the same gentle motion as before, traced his thumb over the long cut on her abdomen. This time, his lips did follow and she arched up into him. A need replaced the pain between her legs and she whimpered at it, never before having known the feeling of desire.

Gilberto's lips continued their gentle caress of her incision, and then moved slowly across her stomach. His head lifted and he stared up at her while holding onto the hem of her sarong. She nodded again and watched as he slowly opened the sarong. He winced, looking up at her with sorrow in his eyes. Her fingers moved through his dark hair and his head fell to her legs, placing tender kisses over the black and purple inside her thighs. Each kiss was soft and delicate, as though he worried any pressure on her skin may hurt her. Each brush of his lips on her sent shivers up her spine. His lips moved up and she sucked in a breath, but he did not kiss where she'd anticipated. He crawled back over her, holding himself above her with his arms and leaning down to place another lingering kiss on her forehead.

Just above her hip, Sara could feel him breaching the space he'd created between the two bodies. Her fingers moved to his pants, but he placed his hands lightly over hers, stopping them from any movement. "Sara, you are still hurt."

"But I am healing. It has been five nights."

"And your body requires at least five more. I will not do anything to hurt you further."

"I want to know the pleasure Rochelle speaks of. I want to give you that pleasure."

"Not yet, Sara. It will only cause you pain."

"But…"

"Sshhh, Sara, just let me give you what you are prepared to take. Let me take care of you tonight." She nodded and Gilberto began to kiss his way down her body again. With each shaky jerk of her body, reactions imbeded in her from her nights with Malik, Gilberto paused. Only after several reassurances, did Gilberto continue with his tender caresses. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let herself get lost in the sensations.

*****

Rosita's soft knock ended the delicious session. Gilberto had worshiped her body in muted silence, drawing out reactions Sara hadn't known could come from her. She looked to the door and then back to Gilberto with longing, tear filling her eyes. He cupped her cheek and kissed her softly, deepening it when a sob escaped her mouth. When they broke, he kissed her forehead and handed her clothing to her. She dressed quickly, kissing him again before disappearing through the door.

Rosita glanced at her with raised eyebrows and she blushed, not able to meet Rosita's eyes. When they were back in her room, Rosita turned to her, "You have to end this."

"I can't. I am in love with him."

"Oh, and what would you know about love?"

"I only know that I am in it."

"You would risk his life for your love? That is not love."

"I would risk my own."

"If Malik finds out, he will kill you both."

Sara's voice lowered. She spoke with great sincerity. "Then let not Malik find out."

"Nothing escapes Malik's eye. Do you understand?"

"I will be careful."

"Sara, young, sweet Sara…" Rosita brushed her hand over Sara's head. "You are so inexperienced in the ways of man. Men like Malik enjoy power and control. When you resist, it is still enjoyable because he can overpower you and control you despite your resistance, but it is not enough. It is not as powerful a thing to have someone fear you as it is to have someone surrender to you. The greatest control a man can have is when a woman fully submits to him. If you are giving yourself to Gilberto, you are not fully giving yourself over to Malik. Malik wants to make sure you know that you are his, and he will make you submit. He has decided that he has given you enough time. If you don't… if he doesn't feel that he possesses you wholly, he will kill Gilberto."

"No," she whispered, staring at Rosita. It couldn't be true, yet she knew, deep down, that it was.

"You cannot risk Gilberto's life that way. You have to submit to Malik. Do you understand?"

Sara nodded. Tears filled her eyes and Rosita looked at her with great sympathy. "I am sorry, but it is not so bad, Sara. Once Malik feels he is in total possession of your body, he will treat you well. He will see that your needs are filled, and you will find him to be a charming and generous master. You also will not have to bed him as often. He will spread his time amongst the rest of us, and some weeks you will not see him at all. You will learn to endure."

Sara said nothing, letting her tears overtake her.

*****

When Malik entered her room later that night, she didn't move. She was anxious, knowing she must do what she must to save Gilberto, but she couldn't seem too eager, or Malik would suspect. Instead, she waited on the bed and didn't fight when Malik peeled the cloths from her body. She thought of Gilberto's touch and the reactions it sparked in her. When Malik placed his hot, wet mouth on her body, she forced herself to arch into it, faking a quiet moan as she did so, pretending it was Gilberto's lips that caused her body to act that way.

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine Gilberto's hands on hers rather than Malik's, but the two men's touches were so different. Each glide of Malik's hands, each kiss of his mouth, and she forced herself to try to create a convincing reaction of desire. Malik seemed much pleased and began to draw out his touches and his kisses, making it harder for Sara pretend she was anything but ill. Though sickened by both Malik's lingering kisses and touches and her artificial reactions to his actions, Sara managed to deceive Malik, whispering Malik's name, remembering how she'd whispered Gilberto's only hours before. She forced herself to move her hands along Malik's skin, pushing her body up into his until he grinned and she feared she'd vomit. Her body dropped back down and she swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Malik followed her down, seemingly assuming she'd reacted out of desire rather than sickness. He kissed her, prying her lips open with his and it was with great disgust and great effort that she forced herself to surrender to the kiss.

When Malik entered her, Sara had to bite her lip to stop the hiss of pain. Though Malik was now gentle with her, the pain of his last intrusion of her body was still very present. Gilberto had been right; she had not yet healed. She grasped at Malik's back, digging in her nails in an attempt to block the pain. Malik grinned, again assuming her actions were of a different reason and began moving in her. Involuntarily, She gripped harder, hoping that the pain would soon lessen. When he rolled off of her, he regarded her with an expression that mixed possessiveness and smugness with tenderness. He smoothed her hair and kissed her nose, which was of great relief as Gilberto was one to kiss her forehead. Malik would not take that from them. Malik's hands ran through Sara's hair. "Laila," he whispered. He stared down into her eyes and she closed them, unable to meet his stare. Thankfully he only chuckled, kissing her nose again. "I knew you'd be mine, Laila." He moved off her, running a finger down her body again. When he left the room, she wept.


	30. The Spaniard, VI

**The Spaniard, VI**

The ache in his head was ever present, and he took the afternoon to rest, drifting in and out of sleep with dreams of Sara on his mind, her touch, her mouth, the feel of her skin under his lips and beneath his fingers, her soft whispers and her aroused moans. Those dreams were the bright spots in an afternoon and a night filled both with the ache in his head and the ache that filled in his heart when he thought about Malik's probable visit to Sara.

The following day, he had to stop himself from checking on her, knowing it would be too dangerous given Malik's suspicions. Malik let him be, not once beckoning him as he thought Malik would. He stayed in his room, trying to keep himself busy and trying to think of a way to get Sara out of the palace and to a place where she would be safe and free and happy. The house was eerily quiet, creating an uncomfortable silence that could suggest either the good or the bad, and Gilberto was not sure if it was fear he should feel, or relief.

Rosita brought him in some food. He took the plate from her and stopped her before she could hastily make her exit from the room. He watched as she glanced down at his hand, softly grasping her arm. Her face lifted, meeting his eyes and he whispered, "How is she?"

Rosita shook her head and shot him a glare of warning before softly answering. "She is alright."

"Has Malik?"

She nodded. "Malik is much pleased."

He closed his eyes, nodding in return. Malik's vanity would continue to blind him. Gilberto opened his eyes and looked into Rosita's, seeing in her eyes that she believed the same. He released Rosita's arm, still staring up at her, his guilt present in his gaze. Rosita left him with a sad smile, closing the door softly behind her. Gilberto sat down on the bed, placing the plate of food beside him and let his head fall into his hands. Sara had given herself to Malik and she'd done it for him. Overwhelming love and overwhelming sorrow took over his heart. Sara would be safe, but she'd given up so much for that safety, and it pained Gilberto to know that she'd given it up for him.

When night came and darkness fell, and just as he was preparing himself for slumber, the door opened. He looked on in great surprise as Malik entered. "Dhakiy, I have to come to tell you that you were wrong about Laila. She had given herself to me, no longer denying how I could fulfill her needs."

Gilberto felt Malik's stare, waiting to see how he would react, but Gilberto remained expressionless, having already had the time to deal with his emotions and replace his pained expression with the mask of indifference he now wore.

"You are surprised?"

"No, Malik. I have told you that you have made your point strongly. I am not surprised."

Malik stared into his eyes, but Gilberto's masked expression never wavered. Malik nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Dhakiy, friend, I have also come to give you my apologies. Yesterday, I was quick to anger. I know what caused you to ask that question of me. Part of it is because you dislike death, I know, but I also know that part of it is because you are a man and I have been neglecting your needs as one. You are a good servant and a good friend, and while I expect the other slaves to control their needs, I would not ask you to do the same."

Gilberto looked on in puzzlement. He raised his eyebrows as he watched Malik turn and exit the room. Seconds later, Malik reentered, dragging Chantal in behind him. "Buthayna has not yet bled, so I do not have to worry about you producing Christian babies. She is yours for the night and for this night only. The next time you want to fulfill your needs, have Sahib take you to the harem."

Gilberto glanced at the girl, feeling a pain cross his heart when he took in her passive acceptance of her circumstances. "Malik, that is very generous of you, but I cannot bed a child."

"You can and you will. I am giving her to you to take to your bed. I do not like my gifts to be rejected, Dhakiy."

"Malik…"

"Is there a reason you will not bed her, Dhakiy?"

"She is a child, Malik."

"She had been bedding me for two years. She is very experienced, and her soft, youthful body is a delight. She can show you much enjoyment…unless there is another reason?"

Malik's tone sent a shiver through his body. He thought of Sara's safety and knew that he had to accept. He sighed, "No, Malik."

"Good," Malik beamed, "Buthayna has been instructed to fulfill all of your needs and to show you much pleasure." Malik looked at Chantal and nodded towards the bed. Chantal scurried towards it, lying down on her back. Gilberto moved to close the door, but Malik's hand stopped the door from closing.

Gilberto met Malik's eyes. He held the handle of the door. "I will take that child to my bed, Malik, but I will not let you watch."

Malik chuckled. "As you wish, Dhakiy, as you wish."

Malik's hand left the door and Gilberto closed it, waiting to hear Malik's disappearing footsteps before moving towards the bed. Chantal's small hands were unknotting her sarong. Gilberto placed a larger hand on top, stopping her movements. He spoke softly, in Chantal's native French. "No, Chantal, no, I cannot bed you." Chantal began to cry, surprising him. "Ssh," he soothed, "What is it?"

Chantal continued to sob, choking on her words and whispering in return, "You will not let me pleasure you. You do not desire me."

He was stunned. Her words had taken him by complete surprise. She was upset because he would not bed her? He had to find a way to make her understand. "Chantal, no, you are very beautiful girl, but you are a child. You are a child of only twelve. It is wrong. Don't you understand?" He stopped, running his hand over his forehead and through his hair in frustration. "You do not have to do this. You are a beautiful young girl, but it is not right. A child should not have to do this. No woman should have to do this. A woman should be able to choose. Oh Chantal," he cried, "you have lost your youth too young."

"Malik had told me that I must pleasure you."

His voice softened. "You would bring me much pleasure by resting safely in my bed for the night. When Malik asks, you can tell him with all honesty, that you brought me much pleasure, that you fulfilled all of my needs. Tell him I was reluctant, but that I took you to my bed. If he asks about my touch, or if his vanity asks you to compare me to him, tell him I am not near the man that he is. You can tell him that I was awkward and inexperienced, for it would be the truth. I have no experience with any of this, and I am afraid I'm making this very awkward for the both of us. You can tell him honestly that the only reaction I brought you was to cause you to weep. Do not tell him anything else. Be guilty of omission, but not of lying. I will tell him that I found you very pleasing. Alright?"

The girl nodded, sitting up on the bed. He took her in his arms, petting her head and drying her tears. Her crying slowed and he pulled back the covers, allowing her to slip in. He laid one blanket down over her, then removed his shirt to sleep and crawled in over the blanket, pulling the next blanket over them both. While she drifted to sleep, he remained awake, suspecting that Malik would return when he was finished bedding whatever woman he chose to bed. He tried not to think of that woman as Sara, but he was certain that it was.

Some time later, he heard the approaching footsteps. Carefully, he moved behind the sleeping child, bringing his naked chest to her back. He gently pushed the blankets down beneath her shoulders and followed by pulling the straps from her top down as well, so that she appeared nude, though she was still fully clothed beneath the shoulders. He felt her stir, perhaps shivering from the chill, but she did not wake. His arm came softly around the blanket covering her body and he nestled in a little closer. When the door opened, Gilberto pretended to be peacefully asleep, curled around the girl. He waited minutes after the door closed and the footsteps moved away before shuffling backwards and re-tucking her in.

*****

When she woke, she choked on the stagnant air. The room was warm and suffocating, as if no air had passed through, and she was using the same air over and over and over again. She was curled on top of the bed, cheeks red and sticky from a night and a day of crying. She wondered how many hours had passed, what hour she had now reached. It was late, she mused, into the evening, but she couldn't be sure. Rosita had taken her in breakfast, which she refused, as she did lunch, and later, dinner. She couldn't eat. She felt too ill after feigning giving herself over to Malik, too nauseous after letting him think she was responding, too disgusted that she'd pleased him so much that he didn't notice that she'd never actually gave any of her self over to him. Yet, if she could go back and erase it all, she wouldn't. She'd make the same choice and she'd do it again and again; she'd do it one hundred times over if it meant keeping Gilberto safe and alive.

She'd been sleeping on and off throughout the entire day, waking only to shed more tears, to refuse meals and to question Rosita on Gilberto's well being. She closed her eyes again, listening to the quiet noises of the household. Indeed it was late. Only a few footfalls could be heard, the late night shuffling of domestic slaves finishing up for the day, of Rosita sending for whatever girl Malik chose to bed that night, the other girls preparing themselves for slumber. And what was Gilberto doing? Reading an ancient script on an ancient scroll? Nursing the wounds Malik had given him? Laying his head down for the night and thinking of her just as she was of him? Sara curled up further, bringing her knees to her chest, wishing there was a way she could safely go to him.

She was just drifting again into slumber, Gilberto's name on her lips, when the door swung open. Sitting up quickly, she stared at the figure in the doorway. No, it couldn't be, she thought, though she'd been thinking that a lot lately, and it always seemed that whatever it was that she couldn't believe, it still was. Still, she was sure that after giving Malik what he wanted, he would spend a few nights with one of his other women before returning to her bed. Rosita had told her that once she gave her body over to Malik, Malik would begin to spread his time amongst his other women. Yet, he stood in the doorway, half naked, looking dark and powerful, chest uncovered, his large, curved knife hanging from his belt, eyes shining and mouth twisted into a roguish grin. "You are surprised, Laila?"

Sara could not speak. Only his name fell from her lips, dying in a whisper. She continued to stare at the figure as though he was a figment, a spirit that couldn't be real. She had to be asleep; she had to have drifted into slumber, into one of the nightmares that had been plaguing her for a couple of weeks.

"You weren't expecting company or you weren't expecting me? You were expecting someone else? Dhakiy, perhaps?"

She still said nothing. Too numb to speak, she continued to watch him, wiping her hand over her eyes to check that she was awake. She'd slept too much, or it was the lack of food that was causing her to see things. She did not want to acknowledge that it may be real, that she might once again have to do what she'd done only the night before. He moved closer to her, taking slow steps. "But, of course, it couldn't be Dhakiy. It is Dhakiy's night with Buthayna."

Her mouth opened and her eyes widened. Could he be speaking the truth? No, it was not possible, not Gilberto, not with a child. Malik had to be playing a game with her, trying to invoke a reaction.

Malik continued moving slowly towards the bed, speaking softly, with a hint of reflection in his voice. "You are surprised? He is a man after all. He has a man's needs. Buthayna is a beautiful girl, very desirable and very able to fulfill one's needs."

It had to be a nightmare. It could not be real. Her face was without expression, blank as she could not comprehend what Malik was saying. She needed to wake from this dream. She blinked, but Malik was still there, moving towards her, sitting down next to her and running his large hands up her thigh, causing her to shiver. "You have to understand, Laila, it is different with a child, so soft and small and tender in your arms, under your hands. So many changes, it is like mapping out a different beauty each time. So small, it is like bedding a virgin every time. It is an exquisite pleasure, one even a man such as Dhakiy cannot resist, nor would he want to. He is a man, Laila."

Malik's hands moved into her sarong, over her privates and she flinched. "But you, Laila, I prefer you. I have bedded Buthayna so many times, enjoying the feel of her in my arms, enjoying the feel of me inside her. She is so very small and making love to her is like a caress. It is enjoyable and satisfying, but you, your tanned skin and your deep eyes, plunging into you is like plunging into eternity. You are still soft, yet you are a woman, in full bloom, at the height of your beauty. You are what Buthayna has not yet reached. Buthayna is a prize, but you are the prize, the one above all others."

His fingers moved over her, up and down as his other hand pushed her onto her back and then came to rest on her hip. He removed his hand from between her legs, and rubbed his thumb over her scar, not running lightly along the length as Gilberto had, but flicking the pad of his thumb back and forth over the width. It wasn't a touch of tenderness but an action of thought within him. She stared at him as he spoke. "I am sorry I had to disfigure you and mark your beautiful skin…but, somehow, I find you even more beautiful with this scar." He leaned down and ran his tongue along the length. She slammed her eyes shut, opening them again when she felt the tongue rise off of her. Malik lifted his head again. "You are beautiful because you are marked, because you bear my mark. It is a testament. You are mine, Laila, only mine."

Malik pushed into her and she felt the tears sting her eyes. She tried to act as if she was responding to him as she has the night before, but it was so much more difficult. When she pictured Gilberto's touch, it was not as a memory from an afternoon only a day ago. No, it felt like a lifetime had passed since that afternoon. Now, as she pictured Gilberto's touch, images of that tender touch on Chantal's not quite yet developed body flashed through her mind. It could not, could not, be true, yet she knew Malik well enough to know he would not lie. He would not have to. He had assumed ownership over her, controlled her with his power and with her fear, though it was fear of Malik killing Gilberto that really had control over her. Still, Malik did not need lies to control. The truth of what he could do was enough. The truth was enough. Gilberto had taken a child to his bed.

Sara forced the thoughts from her mind. She had to concentrate on her responses to Malik's touch. Even if Gilberto had taken a child to his bed, he still risked his life to help her; his fate was still in her hands. She leaned into Malik, banishing all other thoughts, and soon, it became easier. She was so detached, so numb, she began to move with Malik without thought. Her voice let out soft moans when his touch changed and movements varied, and she wondered how her body could act like it was present when her mind was so far away, removed from reality and from the situation. It became as though her body was trained to do it, to fake responses automatically, move in all the right ways at all the right times, whisper Malik's name without the fear or the disgust she felt, like her body was clicking into a mode of survival while letting her mind rest from the reality of it. She was too persons, the one detached and moving automatically, and her self, her soul, the part of her she took complete ownership of, the part that feared and that loved and that wanted to do nothing more than to get lost in the blackness of the night.

Malik left her and she became one again, curling up on the bed and staring at the wall without conscious thought. She was numb and ill and stunned into disbelief. She threw up, her throat burning as only bile passed it. She stared at the wall, fixated, for a whole night, eyes open, in a nightmare, a spell, a dream or a dream-like, nightmarish spell. When Rosita entered the room some time the next morning, she was still staring at the wall, eyes open. It was Rosita's voice that broke her from her trance. "You have to eat something today, Sara."

She shook her head, first looking at Rosita but not really seeing her, and then beyond Rosita, to the door.

"Sara, I insist, you must eat."

"Rosita," she questioned in a voice not her own, "do you know if Chantal went to Gilberto's room last night?"

Through hazy eyes, she vaguely recalled Rosita shaking her head as Rosita cleaned up her vomit. Then Rosita met her eyes, waking her the rest of the way up. "Yes, Malik took her there."

"So it is true. Did he bed her?"

"I know not. If I thought it wise for you to converse with Gilberto, I'd advise you to ask him. He would answer you honestly."

"Has she gone to his bed before?"

"Sara, those are dangerous questions. You should not be interested in Gilberto's pleasures, but only in Malik's."

"You avoid the question. She has. He has bed her before."

Rosita shook her head again, sitting next to Sara. "I have never seen or heard of it. Malik does not share, Sara. Do you understand? Not a woman and not a child he would treat as a woman."

"Then why?"

"There is always a reason for what Malik does. There is a reason he took Chantal to Gilberto's room last night. It could be a wicked reason, a cruel joke, or a way to control you and Gilberto, but there was a reason. I suspect it was a test and I fear Gilberto may have sacrificed his very soul for you. Now, if you want Gilberto to live, you have to let this go. You have to let him go."

Sara nodded though she knew she could not let him go. When Rosita left the room, she wept harder than she'd ever remembered weeping before. Even if it was for her protection, she wondered how Gilberto could do it. He couldn't, not against his own will, not if it was just for her. He had to have desire; he had to be aroused to bed the child, she knew that much. Something in Chantal's youthful, tender body aroused him enough to bed the girl. He could not bed her when she desired him to, when she needed him to, so how could he bed the child? Perhaps she was not pretty enough. She was disfigured, scarred by Malik. She had not the pale, tender skin of Chantal, nor the golden beauty. Malik had said that bedding Chantal was like bedding a virgin. Perhaps Gilberto desired that feeling, that young, small, almost virginal caress of an experienced girl-child, rather than the feel of her used, scraped and splintered, battered insides.


	31. The Spaniard, VII

**The Spaniard, VII**

The sun peered in through the open window. The drapes were blowing inwards, pillowing in the middle. The room was light and breezy. Gilberto was awake, staring with soft eyes, at the girl in his bed. In sleep, she was so small, so innocent and so child-like, it was hard to imagine that she'd been a bed mate of Malik's for over two years.

Chantal stirred and looked up at him, blushing and burying herself beneath the covers as though they'd actually done something. He watched her peek up, staring at his chest and he realized he was still without shirt. He wondered what it must be like for a young girl to wake next to a man without a shirt on. Quickly he pulled on a shirt. "I'm sorry." She giggled and smiled, easing his mind. "Good morning."

"Good morning," she whispered back, shyly.

"Did you have a good sleep?"

"Yes."

"And you felt safe?"

"Yes."

"Good, then I am pleased. You can tell Malik that you have pleased me very much."

Chantal smiled and Gilberto noticed her dimples. God, she was child, an adorable girl-child. He smiled, "So…"

"Thank you." Her voice was small and quiet and he strained to hear, but hear her he did, and it gave his heart a start.

He gazed down at her and gave her another soft look. "You're welcome." She smiled and he stood, his back to her before turning back to face her. "Chantal, do you remember what I told you to tell Malik?" She nodded. "Good. Tell him that and nothing more, alright?" She nodded again.

Gilberto ran his hand through his hair, wondering how it was all supposed to go that morning. Was Malik going to come up? Was Rosita going to bring them both in some breakfast? Or, was he just supposed to ask the girl to leave? He stared at the girl. "Chantal, did Malik tell you what was to happen this morning?" Chantal shook her head. He sighed. "Okay, uh, do you want to rest in here for a while longer, or would you prefer your own room?"

"You would like me to leave."

She sounded almost despondent and he knew he was handling it badly, just as he had the night before when he made her cry by telling her he would not bed her. Was she always this afraid of rejection? What had Malik done to her to cause her to search for such gratification? "No, no, I only thought you might be more comfortable in your own room. If you would like to rest here longer, you may. I'll be heading down the stairs soon, so I won't disturb you. I'll, um, need to change first, so if you could just…"

The girl blushed and threw back the covers, interrupting his words. "I can go," she interjected, and leaped from the bed, scurrying with child-like steps towards the door. At the door she paused and turned back around, giving him a shy smile before dashing out the door.

When the girl was gone, Gilberto fell back onto the bed, closing his eyes. Normally an early riser, the earliest of the house, Gilberto felt he needed to return to bed that morning and get some rest. His head was still hurting and he hadn't much sleep. The presence of another body, a child, in his bed, kept him from drifting off into a deep, restful slumber. He'd feared he'd wake her, or accidentally touch her. He feared Chantal would accidentally touch him and his body would respond in sleep, his mind thinking of Sara and how her touch would light him aflame. He feared he'd dream of Sara and unconsciously seek out a warm body to hold and caress as he would Sara in his dreams.

Instead, he had short naps of light rest. When his body would begin to succumb to the deep sleep, his mind would take action, startling him awake. For most of the night, he'd only stared at the girl, feeling protective as he watched her and as she nestled into the blankets and mumbled in sleep.

His morning nap was more restful. The pain in his head had dulled. He dressed for the day, listening to the sounds of life in the rooms beneath him, knowing that for the first time since entering the house, he was the last one up.

He moved down the stairs and met Rosita on the bottom step. "Good morning Rosita. You are going up the stairs?"

"I was, now I am not. Malik has sent me for you. He would like to see you. He is in the common room."

"Alright."

"Gilberto, Sara is there as well."

His eyes narrowed and he stared at Rosita. His stomach was in knots. "Why?"

"I know not."

"Rosita…"

She looked at him sadly. "He is waiting, Gilberto."

"Okay." Gilberto took a deep breath and moved towards the common room. He entered slowly, watching as Malik turned to him and smiled widely. "Ah, Dhakiy, you are finally up. You have slept late today. Did last night's activities wear you out?"

Malik's words came out in broken Spanish and Gilberto knew the reason was entirely for Sara's benefit. Malik wanted Sara to understand. Gilberto stared at Malik, glancing at Sara. She was seated behind Malik, her eyes sad and watching with interest. He wondered what Malik was up to. "Indeed they did, Malik. I found the night very tiring."

"You and Buthayna looked quite comfortable when I looked in on you. Tell me, was her nude body like a soft pillow you could not help but to wrap your body around?"

He tensed, staring at Malik and refusing to respond to whatever game it was Malik was playing. Malik laughed. "Dhakiy, you offer me much amusement. You do not have to be shy about sex." Gilberto still refused to respond. Malik continued to laugh. "You don't have to tell me, Dhakiy, I know. Buthayna's skin is so soft and tender, her body so inviting, she is like the best of pillows, the softest, the most treasured. I know you feel the same. I saw you curled around that treasure, sinking into that softness."

Gilberto looked past Malik, trying to catch Sara's eyes, but it seemed she was avoiding his gaze. She looked up and he caught hold of her eyes, pleading with her to search out the truth in them. A tear escaped her eye and he felt his heart stop. He continued to hold her eyes, conveying his heart as Malik walked around the room, no longer interested in viewing Gilberto's facial expressions as he asked his questions. "At least tell me this, Dhakiy, did Buthayna please you?"

Gilberto watched as Sara attempted to avert her gaze, but his eyes had firm hold on hers. "Yes, I was very much pleased."

"Buthayna has said that the only response you moved her to was to tears." Malik chuckled, turning to him and forcing him to drop his gaze from Sara. "Dhakiy, I did not know you had it in you. It seems you like to take possession of a tender child, to overpower her and control her, to be rough with her, to show her who is the man, to show her you are a man. Well done." Malik placed a hand on his shoulder. "Dhakiy, I am proud. Did you like it when her small body quivered in your hands?"

He felt ill. He could not let Malik put those ideas out to the room and to Sara. They were unthinkable. Yet, at the same time, he needed to keep Sara safe. He would find a way to relate the truth to her later, but for now, he had to keep up his omissions before he put Sara in danger. "I have told you I have not much experience, and I have none with a child. It was my awkwardness, and nothing else that caused her to weep."

"Perhaps," Malik let out, as though he was thinking it over. "Buthayna has said you were awkward, and not near the man I am. It does not feel good when one is awkward."

"Malik, may I go? You know I do not like discussing these things."

Malik laughed. "I know, Dhakiy, that I do know. I only wanted to make sure she pleased you and met your needs."

"She did, Malik. She did all that I asked and met all of my needs. I am very pleased."

"Good. You may go. I am going to town. I have been asking Laila what she would desire as a gift before I go, but she will not answer." Gilberto held back a scoff. Malik did not buy things for his concubines, personally. Malik sent him. It was an excuse. He knew why Sara was really in that room. He said nothing, letting Malik continue. "She is not like Ameera, who would have me purchase the town for her. It matters not, though; I shall surprise her." Malik moved in, pulling Sara to a standing position, gazing at her and kissing her. Gilberto had to look away.

*****

Malik was gone from the house. His entrances and exits were always so memorable, one always knew the exact second he left. The whole house seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Gilberto looked around the hall, glancing at Sara's door. He shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't, but he needed to see her. That invisible string, pulling him into her, was ever present, and the pull was stronger. He shouldn't have cared what Sara thought of his conversation with Malik. In fact, her believing the worst of him would make it easier to stay away, but he did care. He wanted to believe that it was his reputation, his ability to help the people of the house and of the town, the people's trust in him that led him to her door in hopes of convincing her of the truth, but he was only lying to himself. While it did matter that people trusted him, he knew they would easily forgive what Malik would have them think he did. No, Sara was different. He wanted her to know, to believe, that Malik's words were only words and that he would never bed a child. He could never again bed anyone but her.

He glanced around the hall again and seeing no one, snuck quietly into Sara's room. She looked up at him with startled, tear filled eyes. He moved quickly to the bed, taking her in his arms. "Sara, I…"

"I understand," she intervened, her voice watery. "Malik forced you to, just as he forces me."

"No, Sara, I didn't. I couldn't. Know that I couldn't. Malik is playing a game with us, a deadly game. That is why he had you present while he questioned me."

Sara was staring at him. Face was a mixture between desperation and fear, needing to know what he was trying to say, yet fearing it as well. His heart lurched as he tried to explain. "He took Chantal to my room, and yes, Sara, I took her to my bed, but that is all. I did not make love to her. I did not even touch her other than to comfort her when I caused her to weep, and later to make it look like we were curled together in sleep when Malik looked in."

She stared at him with an open mouth. He smiled softly at her, leaning in to brush his lips against hers and feeling an immense wave of relief pass over him when she did not pull away. "Even if I could bed another woman, Sara, and I couldn't, I could not bed a child. I offered Chantal my bed to sleep in, to feel safe in for a night."

"You told Malik…"

"I told Malik that she pleased me and she did. It pleased me very much to know she was safe from having to fear or worry if Malik would choose to send for her that night, just as it pleased me to know that by taking her into my room, my bed to sleep only, I could keep you safe. I could not bed her. Please trust me; believe me. Know that it is true." His gaze willed her to see his heart. He combed his fingers through her hair, stroking her temple with his thumb.

"I do," she whispered, her expression softening. She was quiet for a moment, dropping her face bury it in his chest. "I thought you could, that you found something desirable about her youthful body or her pale skin, or her golden hair, desirable enough to bed her."

"Sara, the only woman I desire is you."

"Despite Malik's mark on me? Despite my disfiguring scar?"

One hand moved to her abdomen, brushing gently over it. "I love you more for your scar. It shows how strong you are. It does not take away from you beautiful skin."

"I hate it, and not because I know it mars my supposed beauty. I hate it because it is Malik's mark, his way of reminding me that I am his possession."

"Sara, you are no one's possession, and as long as your heart knows that, nothing Malik can do can change that."

"It still bothers me. It still tells me that while my heart and my mind are free, my body is not."

Gilberto released her from his arms, pulling away. He slid down the bed beside her upright body, bringing his face to her abdomen. He nuzzled his face against her stomach and then pressed his lips to the scar and looked up at her. "Your body is still your own. Malik may take from it, but if it were not your own, I wouldn't be able to kiss this scar and you wouldn't be able to offer your body to me."

"If I were to give it to you, would you take it?"

He sighed. "Sara, it is so dangerous."

"Please Gilberto. I would rather die for knowing love than I would live knowing only possession. Do not pull away now, please."

He rose up on his knees and gently guided her to the bed, leaning over her and kissing her tears. "I couldn't Sara. I am already too far in." His lips moved to her mouth, kissing her softly and letting the kiss linger. His mouth left hers and he watched as her lips chased after. "Not now, Sara. It is the middle of the day, and there are many people about. We will find a way, and soon. When that time comes, I promise I'll take all that you offer, and give you all of myself in return, but for now, we have to wait."

Sara nodded, staring up at him. He kissed her again, shortly, not letting it linger, yet finding it difficult to let go. While the kiss was so light and so short, merely contact, it conveyed all of his longing. As he rose, he let his thumb brush over her eyebrow. It seemed impossible to leave her. He sighed, moving to the door. He dared not look at her as he listened for sounds outside and slipped from the room.


	32. The Spaniard, VIII

**The Spaniard, VIII**

Malik's interest in her did not slow. Nightly visits moved from her room to his, and in the day, he whenever he was home, he kept her near, close enough so she could be called upon in an instant, and often, having her right next to him in the common room as he conducted his business. Malik would touch her often. When she was present in his company, he would lightly run his hands over a different part of her body, causing her skin to crawl and making it very hard to conceal her disgust. She would smile, only gaining the strength to do so when stealing glances at Gilberto, who always seemed in Malik's company as well. Every time Malik touched her, Gilberto was there.

Malik moved her rooms, giving her a larger room up the stairs. The new room was still furnished with simplicity, but it had a window, and curtains, and the furnishings were nicer. It wasn't only the window that suited Sara, though she did immediately feel less suffocated and less a prisoner, but also the location. Rosita's room was right beside her, and Gilberto's down at the end of the hall.

Rosita was her escort to Malik's room. Each night, Rosita would come for her and lead her through the house, down halls and corridors Sara had never seen before, to Malik's room. The room was set apart from all the others, down a wing Sara hadn't known existed and she realized how very little of the palace she saw.

Two men stood outside Malik's door. Whenever she passed, they'd stare at her with lewd expressions, grin at each other and step into her space, allowing only enough room for her to slide between them. Once, she'd felt their bodies pressing right into hers and she pushed at the chest she was facing, startling the guard as his head hit the door frame. Her temper had taken hold and she was prepared to fight, but Malik only eyed her and glared at the guards. The next night, both men gave her plenty of room to pass. One look at the bruising on their faces, and she knew why.

Malik's room was large. He had large windows that overlooked the courtyard. The windows were flanked by colorful curtains. In front of the window sat a large bed, larger than she'd ever seen. It was covered with a deep blue covering, and the richness of it stood against the rich colors of the curtains. In one corner of the room, sat a chair, large and looking comfortable for lounging, covered in velvety material. On the floor, a semi-circle of red and purple velvet cushions was arranged around the chair. In the large open space beginning at the foot of Malik's bed and stretching across the room, a massive rug, intricately designed and containing many vibrant colors, covered the floor. Stepping into Malik's room was like stepping into another world.

The feel of the silk sheets surrounding her, smooth against her body, made it easier to act out her responses to Malik. She concentrated on the softness of the silk, letting her thoughts move to Gilberto's touch again as she let Malik slowly take her body night after night for three consecutive nights. When Malik finished, spilling into her, he'd lie on top of her, his weight pinning her to the bed, for minutes until rolling off of her and sending her on her way. Outside the door, Rosita was always waiting to escort her back to their wing.

Rest finally came on the fourth night. She'd begun her monthly bleed. Never had she been so thankful for it. Malik would not take her to his bed. His attentions turned, briefly, to the other girls. Sara watched each night, relived, thankful and feeling guilty as Rosita would escort one of the other girls away.

*****

He could feel the proximity of Sara when she moved rooms, ending up only yards from his. Days were torture as Malik had begun keeping Sara near whenever he was around. Gilberto watched in agony as Malik found ways of touching Sara in front of him. He had to remain expressionless as Malik would search his face and grin at him. He had to watch as Malik's hands moved all over Sara's body. An arm would come around her waist and move up her side before the hand found her breast and his fingers ran over a nipple. It took a great deal of control not to step in when he saw the disgust on Sara's face, clear to him, but transforming into playfulness as she slapped Malik's hand away. It was torture watching Malik respond, grinning mischievously and playfully pulling Sara to him, his murderous hands over her perfect waist. Once, Gilberto had caught one of those murderous hands moving over the swell of Sara's bottom, fingers inching up her skirt in the process. From there, Malik's hand had moved between Sara's legs, cupping her from behind, making her jump and Gilberto to take a step forward, ready to challenge Malik. It was Sara's eyes that had stopped him from going after Malik, pleading with him to let her handle it. She had glared at Malik, Malik had laughed and Gilberto had to take very deep breaths to calm himself.

It was all a show and Gilberto knew it. Malik was showing Gilberto what he possessed and how he possessed it, and Sara was acting the part of an obedient concubine. And, Sara was good at it. Gilberto saw the truth in Sara's eyes, her tender looks at him and her hate filled glances at Malik, but Malik saw none of it. She diffused situations quickly. She turned her angry glares into playful ones. She let Malik take her into her arms and gave him soft looks as though they were lovers and not owner/slave. Malik, who was normally so good at finding the truth in people's eyes, was too prideful and too vain to see the truth in Sara's. There had been close calls, Gilberto knew, where neither he nor Sara could hide their feelings from Malik. It was hard to hide his love for her when she was acting so strong. Sara was quick to diffuse those situations too. Once, Malik had almost caught him and Sara in a tender gaze. Malik's eyes had glazed over, emptying and then filling with fury, body tensing at the same time. Sara had been quick to act, turning to Malik and gently cupping his cheek, asking Malik if he was alright, her gaze soft, so convincing Malik melted into her touch, returning her soft expression, likely believing he'd imagined the tenderness that existed between Sara and Gilberto. It was agony for Gilberto to watch, but they all had a part to play, and Sara was playing hers perfectly.

At night, the anguish of having to watch Malik with Sara during the day, melted away. After Malik finished with Sara each evening, she came to his room, being escorted by a reluctant Rosita. He'd hated that they brought Rosita into it, that she was willing, thought reluctantly, to enter into it; he'd long ago made a promise to protect the young woman, but Rosita knew of his passion and his love for Sara and was willing to assume some of the risk in order to see him realize that love.

The first night, Gilberto moved slowly, slower than a snail's pace, lingering on each part of her body. He took his time, rolling her onto her stomach, exploring and tasting, placing soft kisses along the expanse of her back, his hands gliding behind, working his way down over her bottom, and down her legs. He paused every time he heard her sigh or felt her breath catch, smiling against her skin. He turned her over, making a return trip up her front, loving her with perfect tenderness, kissing her lips over and over again, and entering, stopping only to make sure she was comfortable. Her body joined him, moving in the same rhythm, as he rose from her and moved into her, taking his time, moving slowly, and continually asking if she was alright. His hands held her hips, clasping them softly. He moved them lightly up along her sides, her skin smooth beneath his fingers. They moved to frame her face, kissing her as he continued to move within her. The feel of her around him was intoxicating and there were moments he struggled to breathe, burying his head in her shoulder and still moving, knowing that everything had changed. She pulsed around him and he let go, falling onto her and barely holding his weight off of her with his arms. He kissed her softly, then kissed her again, over and over, each kiss a brief caress of her lips, too breathless to do anything more.

Each night, he would slowly make love to her, trying to replace Malik's touch in her memory with his. He took his time, continuing his ongoing exploration of her body and pleasuring her before entering her. He loved the way her fingers played softly over his chest, the way her eyes gazed into his, the way she leaned and arched into his touch, the way she was so present in her lovemaking and the way she held onto him afterwards, not letting him pull out, but twining her legs around him to keep him inside. His name on her lips was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. Curled around her naked body gave him the best nights of sleep he'd ever had. In the mornings, he'd watch her, always with the knowledge that he could only let her sleep a few minutes after he awoke, needing her to return to her room before anyone in the house rose. There were times he wanted to let her sleep, knowing he could stare at her sleeping in his arms forever. Each morning, he'd run his hand lightly over the perfect curve of her back and place a kiss between her shoulder blades, loving how she'd shift closer and whisper his name in her sleep. Then, he'd wake her, leaning into her and whispering soft words of love to entice her out of slumber.

It was with mixed gratitude and longing he felt the days pass as Sara sheltered herself in her room during her period of bleeding. He was more than thankful and relieved that she would be away from Malik, but the nights were long and lonely. He'd stay awake and think of her, running his hand over where she'd slept. When her bleeding was finished, everything resumed exactly as it had before, Malik showing off his possession of Sara in front of Gilberto during the day and taking her to his bed each night, and Rosita escorting Sara to Gilberto's room when Malik was finished with her. Some nights Gilberto made love to Sara, while other nights, he only held her as she wept. Each night, he watched and gazed on in admiration and regret as Sara balanced between love and survival.


	33. The Spaniard, IX

**The Spaniard, IX**

During the days, Gilberto tried to avoid Malik and allow Sara some time to herself by spending more time with Hassam. The two men spoke and debated, Hassam's gentle words easing some of the burden placed upon his heart.

"It will not always be this way, Gilberto. Once a strong Emirate is established in this country, the city will be governed justly. Ishbiliya will thrive as a place of arts and of learning."

"And the treatment of non-Muslims?"

"I believe you will be treated with the respect you deserve. We are both of the same God, Gilberto. He has been revealed to us in different ways, for us and for the Jews, through Moses, for us, through Jesus, the prophet you believe to be the son of God, and for me, through Mohammed. When the wise leader is chosen, he will treat the Christians and the Jews with the same respect and reverence Mohammed treated the Christian and Jewish sages he conversed with."

Gilberto studied Hassam, seeing the conviction within Hassam's voice and expression. It was true that Muslim rule in the country was still volatile, military leaders trying to hold onto their cities and taking whatever measures necessary to do so. While Malik's closest companions mirrored Malik, the rest of Muslim rule had been far better than Visigoth rule before. The city was in fact, already thriving. If it wasn't for Malik… "It is still hard to see with Malik…"

"I know, Gilberto. All I can ask is to endure. Let the Emirate in Cordoba strengthen. Soon Ishbiliya will begin to grow and to thrive just as Bagdad is beginning to grow and thrive. Bagdad is a remarkable city."

"Yes, I know."

"You've been?"

"With my father. Is that where you're from?"

"No, I'm from Damascus, but I believe all great cities will be modelled after Bagdad."

Gilberto smiled. "Perhaps." His smile changed into a frown. "Perhaps, but not with a leader like Malik."

"No, I fear you are right, Gilberto. Let us enjoy the peace while he is away."

"Away?"

"The house has been preparing for his departure. He is leaving for Cordoba on a short trip soon, praise be to Allah."

Gilberto's eyes narrowed in thought. "He will?"

"For a short time, yes, but I cannot discuss it now. It is time to call out for prayer."

Gilberto nodded, watching Hassam rise from the floor and exit the room. Hassam's words floated through his head. A month had passed since Sara's arrival and his last meeting in town. So much had occurred in that month, much that he wanted to remember and much that he wished he could forget. The mood in town hadn't changed though, nor had his responsibility to the people of the town.

Word had come on the exact date of the next meeting and he began thinking of excuses he could try on Malik when he asked to go to town. The excuse came to him as an offer Malik had made to him came to him in memory and pushed its way into the forefront. It was an excuse he was more than reluctant to use, feeling sickened by the thought of it, both because of his normal objections to such behavior, but also because of his love for Sara. However, he knew it was a reason Malik would be quick to accept and all too happy to grant him. Asking it of Malik could also work to his advantage, as he hoped the question would help dull some of the lingering suspicions and ease some of the time Sara was forced to spend with Malik. The problem was, apart from his moral objections, that he'd have to ask Malik in front of Sara, and knowing Malik, while he could ask the question in Arabic, there was no doubt in his mind, that Malik would answer in Spanish.

Malik's possessive hold over Sara was as strong as ever. Malik was still playing his wicked game with Gilberto, parading his possession of Sara in front of the man, fondling her in Gilberto's presence, and still taking her to his bed each night. Gilberto knew there was no way to avoid Sara overhearing him ask Malik his question. He only hoped he could communicate to her with his eyes, helping her to understand and ask Rosita to explain it to her later. He asked for a moment with Malik and was given time with him in the common room. He spoke to Rosita, telling her of his excuse and then went to the common room to meet with Malik. As expected, Sara was in the room as well, sitting next to Malik on the sofa. Her back was resting against the arm and her feet were up, one resting on the cushion and one in Malik's grasp. He ignored the scene, ignored the longing to be in Malik's place, having Sara rest her feet comfortably in his lap. One glance at Sara and he could see identical longing in her eyes. He looked at Malik. "Malik, I have come to ask your permission to have Sahib take me to the harem."

Malik's eyes lit up and he dropped Sara's foot, standing. He immediately switched the conversation from Arabic to Spanish. "Dhakiy, you want Sahib to take you to the harem? Of course, of course. Buthayna has awoken the need in you. You must continue to fulfill that need. Sahib will take you right away. I hope you enjoy the pleasure of bedding a pagan."

Malik left the room, light in step. Gilberto stared at Sara, unable to do anything when she looked away, hiding her expression from him. His eyes implored her to look at him, but she never did and he finally had to stop trying when Malik reentered the room with Sahib. "Sahib, take Gilberto to the harem. Come, Dhakiy, Sahib is only too happy to accompany you."

"Many thanks, Malik." He risked another glance back at Sara, noticing she was still hiding her face.

"Dhakiy, I am pleased you have asked. Now, away and return a fulfilled man."

*****

Sahib was animated on the walk to the center of the town, speaking of the pleasures both men would experience. "I will take you to the Jew's brothel instead. It is better there. The women, they have been pleasing men for years, unlike our harem where we throw in any pagans we can find. The Jew's girls, they have an expert touch. You'll like it much better."

They arrived at the brother and Sahib was immediately taken away. Gilberto knew Sahib was well known at the establishment, so it was with only mild surprise that they immediately knew what to offer Sahib. A woman returned and moved to lead him away, but he quickly shook his head, giving her Malik's currency, and asking that they take their time with Sahib and not mention his absence. The woman raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Gilberto thanked the woman before hurrying to the same small shop the meeting was held one month before.

Men were filtering into the hidden underground room just as he was. He let all of the men pass and followed them down the ladder. Sergio took no time in starting the meeting, speaking just as Gilberto was closing the trap door. "Where are our supplies?"

"They will be here within a fortnight."

"That long, still?"

"No, that is good. It will give us time to prepare. Will we be ready in a fortnight?"

Gilberto looked around the room. There were more men this time, most of them appearing very eager. Only a couple of faces held the same reluctance as he. He remembered his conversations with Hassam and wondered, if they were successful, what kind of rule would replace Malik's. Even that seemed a moot point. The men were ready to act in too great of haste to be successful. "Friends," he spoke, "you know my opinion. This is a mistake to act so soon. The repercussions will be severe."

"Gilberto, your job is to inform us on Malik. That is all." Gilberto had to check his anger, letting Sergio continue. "Now, what of Malik? Do you know of any plans?"

"Word is that he'll be going to Cordoba in a few days. The house has been preparing for his departure."

"How long will he be gone? Could we mount an attack while he is away?"

He looked around the room. All eyes were on him, awaiting his response. He sighed. "Gentlemen, we aren't ready to mount an attack. Even if we were to take hold of the city, it would merely be temporary. Sevilla is too important to the Moors. Tariq ibn Ziyad would come here himself to take it back."

"Gilberto, many times you have said that the city is mostly under our control. We can take it back and fend off any invaders. The Moors are sweeping north. They will not turn back to take a city in the south."

"We'll fend it off as well as the last time. There is a Muslim garrison here. You underestimate the importance of our town and the strength of those who support the Moors. Our power is in our ability to influence. If we try to fight the Moors before we are ready, we will lose, not only our influence, but also many of our freedoms."

"Enough! I am tired of hearing your opposition. It is noted. I am tired of my affairs being run by the Moors. Endure you say? I say fight, take back our hold on the city and enslave the Moors as they have enslaved us. Our revenge begins now. Everything they have done to our people we will do to them. Anyone who has aided the Moors will be treated as traitors."

Gilberto bristled. He again thought back to conversations he had with Hassan. What would replace the Moors should they be expelled? Though he hadn't been in town to live under the Visigoths, he knew the Visigoths were no better than the Moors. Sevilla was thriving under the Moors, just as Cordoba was to the north. During Gilberto's travels, he had seen that no cities outside the Muslim's empire thrived like the ones within it. No, he'd seen far more poverty in those cities than anything else. While Malik certainly needed removing, Gilberto debated whether or not expelling every Moor would be a good thing, or a just thing. In other cities, Muslims, Christians and Jews lived in harmony, exchanging dialogue and ideas, respecting one another. The Moors had much to offer. Under the right leadership, without being subject to Malik's deprevity, they could learn a peaceful coexistence, respecting one another and learning from one another. With Sergio's anger and ability to convince the people around him, though, they'd never have that opportunity. Sergio was poisoned by his hatred, ready to lower himself to Malik's level. No justice would come of Sergio's quest. And, to seek revenge on those who aided the Moors was unthinkable. At one time or another, nearly the whole town had aided them. Those who supported the Moors were some of his own people, people that had seen the oppression doled out on others by those who faired well under the Visigoths. His own family had been left well enough alone and he'd been away travelling for most of his life, but he knew of men and women who welcomed the Moors with open arms. He also knew that, after the Moors, the Jews would face the biggest backlash, being firm supporters of the new rulers. The Jewish population did not deserve to face Sergio's wrath for choosing to support the new captors who treated them with greater fairness. Innocent people, caught in the middle of this fight, would be punished. And how much further would the wrath, the need for vengence, extend? "And I suppose you will wait for their daughters to age and take the daughters as well? You will be no better than them."

"Who are you to judge us, Gilberto? You have not loved someone who has been taken as a slave, forced into depravity, into performing unholy acts. You have been taken as a slave, but treated as a Moor. You see the enslavement of our people all the time. Does it no longer affect you?"

Gilberto sighed. He knew what it was to love someone taken as a slave. He had to watch it daily. His love for Sara was the most powerful emotion he'd ever felt and his need to protect her was always present in his thoughts. He wanted her out, wanted her free, but more than anything, he wanted her safe. He had seen firsthand how Malik reacted in anger, the punishment he doled on those who crossed him. Gilberto's mind was still concerned with protecting Sara, knowing they would not free the women they loved through an ill conceived revolt; they would only endanger these women and subject more people to Malik's brutality. "Sergio, friends, your need for revenge will be our downfall. We will be no better than the Malik or his men. Treatment of non-Christians, or really any common person, under the Visigoths was not any better, and now look at the revenge bestowed on those who sided with the Visigoths. You want those other people to support you? They would not help trade one captor for another."

"I suppose you would propose to give the pagans and the Jews the same freedoms we ourselves have? Are you mad? Their choice will be to join us or face the consequences."

"Sergio..." One of the merchants interceded.

Gilberto shook his head. Addressing Sergio's anger would not aid in his arguement. He had to address reason. "If we want to protect our people, we have to proceed cautiously."

"No, we have to take a risk or we will always be subject to the Moors. If you oppose, Gilberto, that is fine; just answer our questions first. Where will Malik be in a fortnight's time?"

Another sigh escaped his lips. "I expect he'll have returned by then. The plans are only for a very short trip."

"He'll only have just returned though. He'll be distracted by his return and likely by that concubine he acquired a month ago. I have heard that he is in love with her. Is it true?"

His usually calm demeanor gave way to anger. "That is not love; it is obsession!" His tone was emphatic and belied his anger, but underneath, he was left with a weary feeling as he thought of Malik's gazes towards Sara, fearing Malik was really in love with Sara. He mentally slapped himself, telling himself not to think that way. Malik loved only himself. The games Malik played with Sara and with him spoke not of love. No, even the tenderest of looks Malik sent Sara were driven by obsession and possession. Malik loved Sara as he loved all his prized possessions.

"Either way, it is a distraction. He could even prove distracted enough for us to implement our grandest of strategies. I think we may be very well able to kill him."

"Kill him?"

"Yes Gilberto, kill him, assassinate him. Those plans were not deemed feasible before, but perhaps now would be an opportune time. We could assassinate him and throw the Moors into confusion. While they are in that state, we could strike."

He wondered if the act would be just. It would give him a chance to free Sara. There was certainly a moral arguement to be made, for the good of the whole, but it was so dishonest. Besides, who would fill the void? One of the problems with the Moors rule is how new it was, how disunited, how volitile it was. They were united enough to take over, but the fighting over control of each city, each area was very present in other parts of Spain. Killing Malik could open up a vacuum and plunge the city into wars between different factions, that is if one of Malik's equally brutal followers did not consolidate power quickly. Whoever managed to gain control would certainly take measures, possibly brutal ones, to keep that control. Still, he thought of Sara and of her freedom and he knew he needed to hear more. "How? There are guards everywhere, one the grounds, in the house. You'll never get close enough."

"No, we'll need someone from the house of course."

His mouth opened and he was suddenly struck dumb. He could see challenging Malik, but to murder him in cold blood, surely they weren't suggesting…"You couldn't…I couldn't…"

"Not you. We have someone else, a houseboy. He tells us he can kill Malik while he sleeps."

"Malik has guards at his bedroom door."

"The boy tells us he can get around them. He can stab Malik in the night and we can launch our surprise attack."

He looked around the room. Sergio's words sent a wave of fear through him. Did they know what they were about to unleash? They were turning a boy into their own martyr and no salvation would come of it. The boy would have to catch Malik surprised and it would be nearly impossible to do so, getting into his room without waking him… It wouldn't work. Malik was an excellent fighter, fast and unmerciful. The boy stood no chance. He would be killed, but not after being tortured into giving the names of the men who put him up to it. Thinking of the reprecussions the action would have on Sara and on his soul, he knew he could not support the plan. He would kill Malik to protect her, but this plan was not about her protection or the protection of any person in the city. The plan was only about Sergio's revenge and as all ill-conceived plans do, it would fall through. Malik would have the final revenge. Until they could come up with another way to rid the city of Malik without endangering the entire city, Sara, and one young boy's life, Gilberto could not endorse it. "This is a mistake. I want no part of it. Friends, I urge you not to join."

"The choice is yours, Gilberto. Let the others decide for themselves. Gentlemen, we need your strength. What do you choose? Will you aid in expelling the Moors or will you sit at the limits of caution, enslaving yourselves?"

Most of the men nodded, vowing their help, albeit, most with a great deal of reluctance. Only Vasquez, an elderly merchant declined. Gilberto had failed at convincing the men of their mistake. He sighed, leaving the shop with Vasquez and allowing the other men to continue on with their meeting.

Vasquez walked Gilberto to the brothel. Gilberto took small steps, accommodating the old man. "It is nice to see you Vasquez. After you missed the last meeting, I feared you would not make this one."

"Ah Gilberto, I am afraid I am not well. I am moving on in years and tend to get ill more often. And, I'm afraid these past few years have not been kind. But, it is always nice to see you."

He nodded, letting a moment of silence pass. "I am glad you saw the way through reason. I feared Sergio's talk about families would hasten you to join him. I would not have blamed you."

"No Gilberto. I am too old to fight and I believe as you do. We have not the strength to pull it off. I fear you are right. This will end badly, but there is nothing more we can do. They have made their choice."

"I pray I am wrong."

"You have grown to be a wise man and a good man, Gilberto, and I am proud to know you."

He looked at the old man with an overwhelming softness, a look he reserved only for those he truly loved. "Vasquez…"

"How is Rosita?"

Gilberto awarded Rosita's father's queery by brightening his smile. "She is well."

"You are taking good care of her?"

"Rosita takes care of herself…and of the others, and of me."

"She is like her mother."

Gilberto nodded, saying nothing as he watched sadness pass over Vasquez's face. He let a minute go by before speaking again. "Vasquez, I need an ointment, to heal a scar. Can you get it for me?"

"Stop by my shop with me and I'll give it to you directly."

"I'll have to arrange a way to pay you. I have some money from Malik, but I am not willing to use it. I don't want this to come from Malik, even indirectly."

"What is mine is yours."

"It is not for me. I want to pay for it. Can we work out an exchange?"

The old man studied him, his eyes taking on a knowing glow. "It is important. It is for a woman?"

He looked at the old man and nodded.

"You are in love. I'd always hoped you'd marry my daughter. Even when you two were children, playing together in the dirt, I'd hoped it."

"Vasquez, I love Rosita as a sister, as I love you as a father."

Vasquez nodded. "So this girl you are in love with, it is new? It must be. Tell me, Gilberto, who is this woman you have only just met." Gilberto looked down, then back up into Vasquez's eyes. The old man's eyes regained the glow of recognition, then darkened and turned sad. "It is the new concubine the men were speaking of, the one Malik is also in love with."

"What Malik feels is not love."

"So you have said. And what you feel, Gilberto, you know that it is love?"

"If love were a strong enough word. It is something deeper, some strange connection I cannot explain. I'm drawn to her. I see my soul in her gaze. If I were to die for her freedom, it would not be a sacrifice."

"A pure love."

"One she deserves."

"But one that is dangerous." The old man spoke without emotion. It was a fact he stated and a statement Gilberto had to acknowledge. Vasquez's voice perked up. "Come, we'll work out an exchange. I'll get that ointment for you."

"Thank you, Vasquez." Vasquez nodded and he followed the old man into the shop.

"Here, this ointment should heal scars nicely. Take it." He handed Gilberto a small bottle. "And, as payment, I ask a favor of you, Gilberto. I would like you to take something to Rosita for me." Vasquez moved to the back of the shop, returning with a chain. "This was Christina's. I thought Rosita would like to have it, to remind her of her mother."

Gilberto nodded and took the chain from Vasquez. "She'll be touched, but surely the ointment required more payment than a simple delivery."

He watched Vasquez shake his head. "No, nothing you could do for me or give me will mean more than this. Please, continue to take care of her. I know she takes care of herself, but since Christina's death, Rosita is all I have left. I fear what will happen when this assassination attempt on Malik fails. Knowing that you are with her in that house is all that keeps this heart beating."

"I'll do everything I can to keep her safe, but I fear I've compromised that safety by my love for this other woman."

Vasquez's eyes gained a new sadness. "Love, Gilberto, always love. I was once a young man, desperately in love with a woman. I ask you to watch over Rosita, but she is like her mother; she will make her own decisions. If she is taking a risk for you and this girl, she knows the strength of your love. I fear she will never get to experience romantic love herself, but you do. Rosita would not take any risks if the love you and this girl share was not worth it. Rosita loves you, you know."

"I love her too, Vasquez," he spoke sincerely.

"I know you do…as one loves a sister. Now, tell me about your girl. Is she very beautiful?"

"She is stunning. She has a fine figure and nice skin, but it is her eyes. They are dark and deep and soulful. Malik has named her, Laila, Arabic for night beauty."

"Is she from the Gaul?"

"No, she is Spanish."

"How old is she?"

"She is young. She is only fifteen."

"A good age for you to marry."

"You don't think she's young?"

"She is a woman, Gilberto. Fifteen is a good age. Go and be careful. Love this woman and find your way into town to see me. I have missed you, my son."

"Vasquez, I have missed you as well, more than anyone but my own father."

"I am proud of you, Gilberto."

He smiled softly, letting his hand squeeze the old man's shoulder. "Goodbye, Vasquez. I will deliver this chain to Rosita directly and let her know you are presently well. She was worried when I spoke of your absence at the last meeting."

"I trust you'll ease her fears. You do my heart good, Gilberto. Goodbye."

"Goodbye Vasquez."

He left the shop, returning to the brothel and waited for Sahib to come out. As promised, the woman he'd spoken too had instructed the concubine to take her time with Sahib and spoke nothing of his absence.

"So, Dhakiy, it was good, no?" Sahib was grinning from ear to ear, winking at him.

"They have lived up to my expectations," he spoke, searching for words that were honest yet misconstruing. Sahib only smiled even wider.


	34. The Spaniard, X

**The Spaniard, X**

Malik was smiling widely when he returned. Sahib told Malik that the visit to the brothel went well, delighting Malik. Gilberto felt uncomfortable at the way Malik and Sahib were grinning at him, but he'd learned that Sara had been left alone for the afternoon, and that knowledge made the grins easier to bear. It was Rosita who told him of how Malik had entirely forgotten about Sara for an afternoon. He gave Rosita her mother's chain, told her of his visit with her father and found himself with an armful of a weeping woman.

That night, Malik still sent for Sara and he was forced to watch the woman he loved as a sister escort the woman he was in love with towards the only man he'd ever found it in him to hate. He laid awake on the bed, waiting for Malik to finish with her and for Rosita to escort her to him. Some time later, he heard soft footsteps, ending down the hall. Sara had gone to her own room.

He held the ointment Vasquez had given him in his hand and waited a short time before carefully and quietly making his way down the hall, stopping each time he heard a floorboard creak. He didn't knock, but opened her door softly, finding her awake and sitting up on her bed, her eyes moist with tears. "Sara?" he whispered.

"Why are you here? Did you not get your fill today?" Her words were harsh whispers that cut right into him. Then, she began to weep again. "Why aren't I enough for you?"

"You are. Oh Sara, I needed to go to town today. The harem was an excuse, somewhere I could lose Sahib while I went to do my own business. Didn't Rosita tell you?"

Sara nodded. "I did not know whether to believe her. Malik said so many things. The things he said, they were hard to ignore. The little experience Malik spoke of was not from the harem?"

"No. Sara, please, for your own peace, try not to listen to Malik's words. They are part of his games, part of his attempts to manipulate us."

"But you have bedded a woman before?"

Gilberto sighed. "Yes, once."

"Then who was it? Who have you made love to before me? Was it Marie?"

He sat next to her, taking her hand and asking softly, "What have you heard about Marie?"

"I've heard talk. I heard she was beautiful and that your eyes were often fixed upon her."

"She was beautiful and I was captivated by her, but I did not love her and I did not make love to her."

"Then it was Rosita."

He stared at Sara, seeing the insecurity in her eyes. Her hand arms were wrapped around her waist, her hand covering her scar. He shuffled closer to her. "Why would you think that?"

"I saw you hug today, and you two have this bond. She's also very protective of you. I can see she loves you."

"Yes, she does. And I love her." He smiled softly. "But Sara, she leads you to me, every night. That is not the action of a former lover. Rosita is like a sister to me. We were raised together. My mother died while giving birth to me and my father was away often. When I was older, he'd take me with him, but when I was younger, he left me in the hands of Rosita's family. Even as I grew up and joined my father in travel, there were times he'd leave me in the care of Rosita's family. Her father was a father to me; her mother was the only mother I've ever known. Our bond is the bond of a sibling."

"Then who?"

"Why, Sara? It is not important. It does not change how I feel about you."

"I have to know. I know it isn't fair; you have to watch me go to Malik's room each night and lay here with the knowledge that he is taking me, but I've only ever made love to you. I could only ever make love to you, and I have to know who else you could make love with."

"Nobody. Listen Sara, it happened a long time ago, and it was not making love. I was in Italy, and had decided to return here. The sister of a friend decided to give me a parting gift. I was young and she was beautiful. I had been given a more glasses of wine than I am proud to admit, and we bedded one another. Sara, you are the only one I desire, and I'd be content to never make love again if it meant I could hold you in my arms forever, just hold you."

He felt her shift, sliding into his lap and he wrapped his arms around her. She kissed his neck, causing him to moan, and he laid back on her bed, while she moved over him. His arms fell to his sides and his hand released the small bottle he'd been holding. Sara's kisses stopped. He watched as she picked up the bottle. "What is this?"

"It is for you. I got it in town today. It should help to heal your scar."

"Then you do not like it. You told me you did not mind my disfigurement, but you do." She pushed off of him, sitting in a curled position.

Gilberto rolled onto his side, taking the bottle from her. He tugged on her ankle, pulling her down so that her back was lying on the bed. "Sara," he kissed her scar, "this does not bother me, but I know how it bothers you. You feel marked by Malik, and I'd like to think you feel healed by me. The ointment is yours if you choose to use it. If you don't, I would be happy to know you didn't need it, that my word was enough to convince you that your body is your own. If you feel you need to get rid of Malik's reminder, I only want you to be able to do so."

"My choice?"

"Of course. Sara I would never ask you to do anything you didn't want to. You don't think you've had to satisfy me as well as Malik?"

"No!" She was emphatic and he let out a long sigh of relief. She rolled onto her side, facing him. "No, Gilberto, I want to spend these nights with you. I need to spend these nights with you."

He leaned in, kissing her and rolling her back onto her back, placing kisses down her body. She arched into him and he pulled back. "We don't have to, if you're still not sure…" He felt her hand come behind his neck, pulling him back down. He kissed her again, slowly undressing her and making love to her over and over until the first rays of sunlight woke him, sending him back to his room.

*****

The next couple of nights, Malik had eased off on Sara and had other women brought to his room. Both nights, as each girl was beckoned, Sara listened quietly by her door and waited for the sound of footsteps creaking on stairs. Both nights, she stole out of her room and into Gilberto's, slipping into his bed. They made love in muted silence, she above him, rocking back and forth, hands on his chest, stifling the sounds that wanted to rise out of her. Sara kept her eyes locked on his, letting only his whispered name pass her lips. Both nights, after they had finished, Gilberto would glide his hands up and down her back and she'd fall gently into him, the tips of her fingers touching and caressing him as she watched him drift into sleep.

The night before Malik left for Cordoba, she was again brought to his room, not unexpectedly. He'd been eyeing her all day, with greater interest and desire than normal. She entered the room slowly, raising an eyebrow as she noticed Malik not in bed, but sitting in his velvet lined chair. There was a plate of grapes on a small table beside the chair. Malik held his arm out and indicated for her to kneel on the floor in front of him. Kneeling on a plush velvet cushion, Sara stared down at the floor. Malik's hand cupped her chin. "Laila," he whispered, causing her to look up at him. She stared at him as his hand moved behind her neck. "Seduce me."

Sara's eyes, wide with alarm, shot to the floor before lifting back to Malik. How could she seduce him when he made her so ill? Her stomach felt queasy with the thought. She swallowed, her mind thinking of Gilberto and how she felt as though she'd be betraying him. She thought of Gilberto's hands running tenderly up and down her naked back, soothing her. She couldn't do this to him. What would Malik do with Gilberto, though, if she didn't comply? Gilberto needed her to do this. She would pretend it was him. She shifted between Malik's legs and rose up on her knees, planting her hands on Malik's thighs. Her hands slid up along the thighs and she heard Malik's breath catch. Her hands moved to his waist, where she untied the belt on his robe. Concentrating on her task, her hands skated up his body, to his chest, where she pushed the robe aside.

Malik caught her hands and nodded towards the grapes. Sara glanced at them and understood, swallowing before plucking grape after grape and feeding them to Malik, slowly, one by one. When the grapes were gone, Malik grinned at her and she could only hide her discomfort and nausea by returning her attention to her previous task. Leaning forward, she placed her hands back on Malik's thighs and kissed his stomach. Bile rose within her and she kneeled back down, trying to regroup herself. She kissed higher, thinking of Gilberto and feeling a tear escape her eye and slide down her cheek. Not letting Malik see it, she quickly wiped it away before running her hands over Malik's shoulders and removing the robe.

Malik sat motionless as she fought to continue, swallowing back her bile and her involuntary gags. She needed it to be over with and speedily so that she could run back to Gilberto and hide in his arms. In order for that to happen, she had to stimulate Malik quickly. Her hands slid up his thighs, her thumb running along the insides. Her teeth raked over his chest. Malik hissed and grabbed her jaw, pulling her mouth to his. His kiss was fierce and she had the uncontrollable urge to bite down on his probing tongue. Summoning what little strength she had, Sara managed to refrain, letting him kiss her hard. Malik stood quickly, lifting her into his arms. He carried her to the bed and dropped her, climbing over her and taking control.

Malik hadn't stopped kissing her the entire time he spent undressing her. His hands were all over her and she forced her hands to move on him, to excite him quickly. He pushed into her, thrusting quickly until he spilled into her. He lay on her, panting heavily and then rolled off of her. Sara lifted herself off the bed and put her nightgown back on. She moved to the door. Just as she was about to open it, she felt Malik behind her, his back pressed to her chest, one hand resting flat against her stomach. His other hand held the door closed.

"Laila." Sara turned, staring at Malik with wide eyes. She wanted to cry, to run to Gilberto and cry. She wouldn't. She would not let Malik see his effect on her. Why was Malik not letting her leave? She bit her lip. Malik pressed his body into her, his hands falling to her waist. She found herself being turned and walked backwards. Malik lifted her again, slowly lowering her onto his colorful rug. He was touching her again, light and slow, more controlled, focussing on her. She forced back the tears and willed her body not to shut down, but to feign pleased responses. Then, Malik was inside her again, moving more slowly this time, his face pressed into her shoulder. She wondered how could he be ready so soon and wondered if it was her fault for exciting him the way she did. Malik picked up his pace, finally spending himself and falling onto her. When he rolled off, she feared moving. After a few moments, Malik stood and crawled into his bed. Sara redressed again and slipped out into the hall to a waiting Rosita.

*****

Gilberto sat up in his bed, waiting on Sara. She'd looked especially radiant all day, garnering looks from every man who passed through the house. Gilberto wanted to show her that beauty through his eyes, to worship her and her radiant beauty, though he feared Malik was likely attempting to do the same. He waited, holding his breath until he heard the door creak open. He stared at the door, waiting to see Sara but instead, was greeted by the sight of Rosita peeking in, a sad look on her face. He raised an eyebrow and watched as she stepped aside to reveal a sobbing Sara. Gilberto stood and Sara thrust herself into his arms. He wrapped his arms around her, soothing her as he stared at Rosita who only shook her head and closed the door behind her. Once the door was closed, Sara was all over him, attacking him with her mouth. She pushed him back onto the bed and climbed over, placing kisses across his chest with vigor. It took seconds for her to remove her cloths, and then his pants and she had him in her grasp, making all thought impossible.

He flipped them so that he was above her. Sara lifted herself up to continue to pepper him with kisses, pulling down on his head so that his lips met hers. He felt her tongue thrust into his mouth and he couldn't help but respond. He needed to gain control. When he was finally able to break the kiss, he was panting. Sara moved to pull his head down again, but he remained raised above her. He shook his head.

Sara's head fell back against the pillow. He stared down at her tear-filled eyes and found his heart breaking. He gently wiped away her tears. "Sara, what happened?"

Sara shook her head. He smoothed out her hair, staring down at her. "Sara, love, I know something happened. What has made you so upset? Did he hurt you?"

Gilberto watched as Sara shook her head again. She sputtered out something he had trouble understanding. "Sara, it's alright. Please, tell me."

"He made me seduce him."

Gilberto had to choke back his own sob as tears rushed to his eyes. "Oh, darling…" He shook his head and fell to her side, pulling her into his arms. He kissed her shoulder, his tears spilling onto her skin.

"I'm so sorry."

His embrace tightened. "No, darling, but why? You don't need to be sorry."

"I initiated the coupling with Malik. I kissed my way across his body."

Gilberto squeezed his eyes shut. He cradled Sara's head against his shoulder. "You had to. It's not your fault." He opened his eyes and kissed her crown.

Sara's face tilted to his. He stared into her eyes, feeling her pull out of his embrace. She kissed his chest softly and then tilted her face to his. "Will you let me seduce you?"

Gilberto lifted himself onto his elbow, staring across at her, at her delicate body. "Sara, the mere sight of you is seduction." He gently pushed her onto her back, his hand caressing her arm. He leaned down and kissed her. His hand moved over her stomach, resting on top of it. His thumb traced over the fading line of her scar. "I love you."

She nodded. "I love you. Let me love you."

"Perhaps you've had enough for one night. Let me just hold you."

"Please, Gilberto."

He stared into her eyes and nodded, letting her guide him onto his back. She trailed kisses all over his chest, brushing her lips along his skin. Her fingers followed, her touch so light, it felt as though it was floating above him, barely there and leaving his skin tingling. She touched him and he bucked into the touch. Her hands moved softly over him as she placed another tender kiss over his heart, her lips lingering on him and causing tears to form in his eyes. He stared up at her delicate, graceful body, watching her position herself above him. She sunk down on him and he grasped her waist, holding her to him. Slowly, he rolled them so that he was above her. Dropping his forehead to hers, he moved in and out of her slowly, gaining little speed, but still keeping the pace of lovemaking slow when her legs wrapped around him. Afterwards, he moved off of her and pulled her into his arms. Placing soft, lingering kisses against her shoulder, he waited for her breathing to even before placing one last kiss on her skin. He didn't sleep that night, only thought of how he needed to get her out of there.


	35. The Spaniard, XI

**The Spaniard, XI**

Sleeping with Sara the night before Malik left, holding her tightly in his arms and not letting go, Gilberto could not stop the images racing through his head of what he imagined Sara had endured that evening. He could see Malik's wicked, wanton looks as Malik forced Sara to excite him…to seduce him. It was a tortured night of feeling so utterly impotent at not being able to do anything to stop it. Calming Sara with whispers of his undying love for her had not done anything to calm his own tormented heart. He wanted nothing more than to steal her away in the night, take her to some place safe, some place where she could choose how her own life would be spent. Closing his eyes on a sigh, Gilberto pulled Sara further into his embrace and tried to sleep.

When he woke the next morning, he was reluctant to let Sara go. If only he could keep her in his arms, in his protection forever. With the knowledge that the very protecting embrace he wanted to bury her in would only endanger her further, he reluctantly roused her and ushered her back into her own room with only moments to spare before the house woke up and prepared for Malik's early departure to the capital.

Gilberto had hoped that Malik's absence would provide him with the opportunity to get Sara out of the house and out of the city, but soon found those hopes dashed. Malik, in his ever-present, ever-growing, yet acutely justified paranoia, had tightened the security for his absence. All around the grounds, Berbers watched and patrolled. The number of Berbers on the grounds had doubled. In Malik's place, Malik had chosen Nijad, a highly trusted and highly intelligent man, whose dominant presence rivaled only Malik's. While Nijad would leave the house mostly in peace, he would not tolerate anything that would upset his notion of peace. Of all the men Malik could have left charge of the house to, Gilberto knew that Nijad was the only one who would not be easily manipulated.

A few days into Malik's absence and Gilberto resigned himself to the near impossibility of getting Sara off the grounds. Even if he found a way past Nijad and the Berber guard, Sara had taken ill and he had the added worry of her safety during travel. If the illness didn't worsen, it would certainly slow them down and make them more vulnerable to being caught. There was a sense of urgency in getting her away before Malik returned, but he could not risk her safety. He also had to think of Rosita. Vasquez's pleas were ever present in his thoughts. He'd promised to watch over Rosita, and Rosita, he was sure, would fight to be removed from the girl's she'd made her own vow to watch over.

Instead of freeing Sara as he longed to do, Gilberto could only watch over her each night, wiping the sweat from her brow and holding a cloth to her forehead when she vomited. The only safety he could presently offer her was the safety of his arms, of his embrace, of his love, finding a way to hold her and convey that to her every moment he was able to spend with her. Gilberto's only solace came in knowing that while Malik was away, Sara would be safe from Malik's demands, his touch…his cravings.

*****

Wiping away the traces of vomit from the side of her mouth, Sara looked up at Rosita with wide, fear filled eyes. She wanted…needed Rosita to be wrong. "No, it can't be."

Rosita only shook her head sadly in response before helping her to stand. Tears filled Sara's eyes as fear overtook her. Without warning, her stomach churned again and she fell forward, emptying it into the bucket in front of her and being splashed by the spray that rose up out of the pool. Staring down at the vomit in the bucket and splattered across the floor, Sara dared not meet Rosita's eyes. She dropped her chin to her chest and began to weep, tears falling into the pail of vomit, as Rosita's hand rubbed softly over her back.

Rosita stayed with her, cleaning up her face before cleaning the floor and taking away the bucket. Sara remained on the floor, trembling on her knees until Rosita returned and helped her into bed, placing a clean bucket beside her. The blankets were tucked around her and then Rosita slipped from the room. Sara laid on the bed, silently, waiting for the sounds of the house to fade with the day. When all was quiet, she climbed from her bed, slipped out of her room and into Gilberto's.

Gilberto looked up at her form with a startled expression. Feeling so ill and so frightened, she stood in the doorway, tears sliding down her cheeks and likely making track marks across her pallid skin. She watched as Gilberto stood quickly, crossing the room to her and folding her in his arms. She fell into his embrace, burrowing into the warmth of his chest. Her arms wrapped around his back as she anchored herself to him. She buried her face in his shoulder, rubbing against it, and began to weep.

Sara only looked up when she felt Gilberto pull out of her embrace. His hands cupped her face and his thumbs brushed the tears from her eyes. "Sara, what is it?"

Unable to hold his gaze, she hid from his probing, concern filled eyes by staring down at the floor. Looking to her floor, her feet, his feet for answers, she knew she could not hide this from him and she struggled to speak. His gaze was upon her. She could feel it burning into her skin. Steeling herself, Sara lifted her face and met his eyes. She bit her lip before glancing away quickly. "I think I missed my bleed."

When her eyes returned to Gilberto's face, the color had drained from it. His eyes were filled with fear. His hands gripped her shoulders. "Are you sure?"

She nodded.

"When?"

Her voice choked on her words. "I'm not sure." She closed her eyes and shook her head, tears escaping her clenched lids and rolling down her face. She was supposed to know this. She should know this, but she was only fifteen. Surely she was too young for this, to young to have bedded a man and too young to be with child. Malik had forced himself upon her and nights with Gilberto had only come because she sought love where she'd only known pain. She should still be on her family farm, living with her parents, while Gilberto, because it could only ever be Gilberto, courted her and stole kisses from her. Opening her eyes, she looked at Gilberto, seeing tenderness mingle with the fear. He was waiting for more of an answer. She tried counting back the days. Malik had been gone eleven days… "A week ago, maybe. I should have had it. It should be finishing."

Gilberto nodded. She sighed with slight relief when his arms pulled her to him again. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest. "What's going to happen?"

Gilberto froze against her. She pulled away and stared up at him, waiting as Gilberto took a deep breath. He looked down at her. "If the child is Malik's, the child will be taken from you after birth and raised and educated as a Muslim. You will still have access to the child, but you will have no say in the upbringing."

A sob rose and died in her as she thought of the prospect of having her child taken from her. It was only one possibility. She stared at Gilberto, waiting to see if he'd answer what they were both afraid to address. Gilberto was silent, but she had to know. "And if it's yours?" she asked softly.

Gilberto looked away. Slowly his eyes found hers again. "I don't know." His voice was quiet and solemn and grave. "I fear that if the child resembles me, if Malik discovers the child is mine, he will kill the child and then after forcing us to watch such a fate, kill us as well."

If it wasn't for the excruciating pain making her way across her heart, she would have feared it stopped. Then, it did. She opened her mouth to let out a silent wail, the agony so severe not a sound could escape. Tears fell as she sobbed harder, her weight giving beneath her. Gilberto caught her and held her tightly, lowering them both to the floor.

Sara sunk to her knees, feeling the pain of a loss not yet realized and the pain of the weight of her own guilt at hoping that Malik had fathered the child. Though she wanted with all her heart to have conceived a child out of love, her heart needed to know that the child she conceived would be safe from harm. How it hurt her so to want the child to come from not the man she loved, but the man she hated. How it hurt that for fleeting moments, she had thought of asking Rosita how to get rid of the child. She trembled and wept, finding little comfort in the smooth, tender motion of Gilberto's hand running over her sticky, sweaty hair. His lips landed on her forehead. "I won't let that happen, Sara."

Gilberto's hands cupped her face again, unsuccessfully trying to brush away her river of tears. His forehead fell forward and landed on hers. "I'm going to get you out of here." He kissed her and stared at her. She met his eyes and found herself nodding. Gilberto's arms came around her again. She fell into his embrace, closing her eyes. His lips brushed over her temple. "I promise."

*****

Gilberto held Sara in his arms until he could feel her trembles quiet. Kissing her temple, he smoothed his hand over her hair again and looked her in the eye. "It will be alright, okay?"

Heart clenching with anguish, he waited for Sara to nod. When the slow nod of her head came, he offered her a soft smile before standing and lifting her into his arms. He held her in his arms, against his chest, standing in the middle of his room for minutes before carrying her to the bed, laying her gently and covering her with his blanket. She stared up at him with wide eyes, traces of her tears still visible. He leaned forward and placed a light kiss on her lips. "I'll be right back, okay?"

Sara nodded again, though she looked unconvinced. "Trust me," he whispered, running his thumb across her jaw. "I'll only be a minute."

Turning before he could catch her reaction, Gilberto slipped from the room. Outside the door, he took a minute to compose himself, leaning against the wall. If he felt a sense of urgency before, it was certainly heightened by the possibilities of her news. Sara had entered his room looking so pale and so frightened. The tracks of her tears along her ashen face had nearly broken his heart. What were they to do? Pushing off the wall, Gilberto crept down the hall and slipped into Rosita's room.

Rosita sprung up in bed with alarm, clearly startled by his entry. Gilberto crossed the room quickly, quieting her with reassurances that it was only he. When she had visibly calmed, he could only stand by her bed, fidgeting. "Rosita, does anybody else know about Sara?"

"That she is ill or that she might be with child?"

Gilberto's eyes widened. He hadn't thought about the possibility of anybody knowing of her possibly pregnant condition, though with that many women in the house, many who had already gone through a pregnancy or two, it shouldn't have surprised him. His only hope was that Rosita, being the only person apart from him to enter or exit Sara's room, would be the only one to suspect anything. She wouldn't say anything, but he wondered if the other women would begin to question. "Both."

"No. Only you and I have tended to her and I have told no one of her illness. The others believe her to be isolating herself because of her bleed, or because Malik has set her apart from them."

"So nobody else knows that her bleed has not come?"

"No, Gilberto. You know that I would not say anything."

Gilberto breathed a long sigh of relief. If anybody were to find out Sara could be with child, Sara would be watched closely. With no one being the wiser, Malik would return and think Sara bled while he was away. It gave Gilberto just a little more time, though only scant few days with Sergio's plans in the works, to get Sara away from Sevilla. Once Sergio went through with his plan, escape could become nearly impossible as Malik would be sure to tighten his guard. Gilberto sat down on the edge of Rosita's bed. "I'm going to get us out of here."

Rosita sat up a little straighter. "You and Sara? Malik will kill you. You know how he prizes that girl."

Gilberto stared straight into Rosita, determination etched into his features. "We'll get away. You're coming too."

Rosita glared at him. "I am not," she spoke, her voice rising.

"Rosita, hush, keep your voice down," he chastised. "You are. I promised your father I would look out for you."

"And who will look out for the other girls, for Chantal, for Lise and all the others?" Rosita whispered harshly in return.

Gilberto dropped his head. He could not help them all. He could only pray he was wrong about Sergio's plans and hope that they were successful. "Rosita, please…"

"No, Gilberto. Get Sara out and may the two of you find some happiness. I'll do what I can to help and I'll pray for your success, but I will not abandon those girls."

He did not want to abandon the girls either, but after years of being in the house, he had come to realize that his presence did not seem to help much. Malik would do whatever Malik pleased, with or without him. The girls were not any safer with him in the house, nor would they be placed in any more danger without him. Still, the thought of abandoning any of them… If it weren't for Sara, for the urgency of the situation, for the future of what could be their child… "I have to get Sara to safety," he whispered.

"I know."

"Your father…"

Rosita's eyes softened. "When you get out, pass a message on for me. Tell him that to stay was my choice. Tell him that I love him."

"Rosita…"

"Get back to Sara, Gilberto. She needs you."

Gilberto sighed, looking at Rosita and knowing she would not budge. He stood and moved to the door, pausing in the doorway. "Your father needs you."

He left her with those words, slipping from the room and stealing back into his own. Sara's sniffles greeted him and he raced to the bed, sliding under the covers and pulling her into his arms.


	36. The Spaniard, XII

**The Spaniard, XII**

Sara's breath, warm and even, fanned his neck as he woke. She was curled into him, her lashes brushing over his skin, causing it to tingle when mixed with her breaths. Her brow was rubbing inside the crook of his neck, sticking on the skin that had absorbed the tears she'd shed the night before. Feeling a yearning to hold her in that intimate embrace forever, to calm all of her fears and protect her, but knowing such a wish was impossible, Gilberto sighed softly. Mindlessly, he let his hand run lightly down her arm before moving it to the small of her back, the tips of his fingers resting lightly on her soft, smooth skin. He tipped his head forward and placed a light kiss on the back of her shoulder. Sara shuffled closer, her hand circling on his side, creating a slight tickling sensation coupling the same sensation caused by her lashes fluttering on his neck as she began to stir. Pulling back, he edged lower so that he could meet her eyes as she woke. He gazed at her and could make out the redness around her eyes, the residue left from her tears, the lines those same tears made as they slid down her face. Leaning forward, he placed a soft kiss on each eyelid. Her eyes opened slowly, wide and beautiful. He smiled softly, gliding his hands along the expanse of her back. "Good morning."

"Good morning."

"How are you feeling?"

"Well enough."

He nodded. "Do you feel ill at all?"

Sara shook her head. "Not at this moment."

"Good…good." He stared at her staring at him and he paused. "Listen Sara, I need a day or two to make sure I can get you out of here safely. Once it's clear, we will steal away in the night, find somewhere safe to live and raise our child." He looked beyond her, wistfully. "We'll do what we can to protect our child from this world for as long as we can and we'll teach him or her to be prepared for it."

Sara bit her lip. "What if it's Malik's child?"

His hand came around the curve of her side and landed on her flat stomach. His thumb brushed over her navel, dipping into the hollow before tracing around it. He slid his hand back over her side, resting it there. "We'll teach it to love and we'll give it our love."

He smiled, feeling Sara press into him, holding him just a little tighter. His hand lifted to her face and his fingers combed through her hair. "Sara?" he whispered.

"Yes?"

He pursed his lips, taking a moment to form his words. "I need you to do something for me. I need you to talk to Rosita. Over the next couple of days, whenever you are alone with her, I need you to try to convince her to come with us. Her father is ill and he needs her. Knowing I am with her is all that keeps him clinging to life. I can't break my promise to him and leave her in the house, but I fear I may have to if Rosita doesn't listen to me and insists on staying here."

It was silent for a moment until Sara lifted her face to his, her eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "Why would she insist on staying here?"

"She won't leave the other girls."

To his disappointment, Sara pulled out of the embrace. He'd worried about what would going through her mind as he voiced his request. Then, Sara placed a hand on his chest, staring down at it. "What is her story?" she asked softly.

"What do you mean?"

"She's different from Malik's other girls, more in charge. Malik does not look at her the same way, yet I know she is as we are."

Gilberto sighed as he began to recall how Rosita had come into Malik's possession. Though he had not been there at the time, he knew the story, told to him by an anguished, aging father with a broken heart and a grief stricken mother whose own heart would not mend enough to keep beating much longer after the heartrending and sorrowful enslavement of a daughter. "When the Moors first arrived, Rosita was only just sixteen, very young and very beautiful. Malik took control of the city and desired her, so he took her captive, stole her youth from her and enslaved her. The Moors had not yet moved north, had not yet taken most of this land, so the people they'd enslaved came from here. As the Moors pushed further north and sent more golden haired, pure, virginal girls south, Malik took more women in as concubines. Over the years, Rosita grew older and the women forced to become Malik's concubines came to him younger, more exotic, and still in possession of their maidenhood. Malik lost interest in her, but he would not let her go free. Rosita began to look out for the other girls, doing whatever she could for them, taking care of them after Malik took from them."

Sara's fingers curled on his chest. She lifted her eyes to his, the sorrow in her gaze penetrating his heart. She spoke weakly, uncomprehendingly, "But she's still young, still beautiful. He takes women he's already taken. How could he lose interest in her?"

"Malik tired of her. He'd already had her and compared to the other girls coming in, Rosita had grown old. She'd given birth to two children by him and lost both children, both of them dying at birth. She lost the light in her eyes, the life she had left in her, some of her shape and Malik lost his desire for her."

A tear inched down Sara's cheek. Gilberto lifted his hand and wiped the tear away. He kissed the corner of her eye. "Will you speak to her for me?" Sara nodded. He smiled tenderly. "Thank you." He placed another light kiss on her temple. "We should get you back to your room," he voiced softly, reluctantly. Sara nodded again, the bob of her head barely discernable, holding as much reluctance as his own words had.

Gilberto pulled her in closer, holding her to him. "I'm going to do everything that I can to make sure we are able to spend the rest of our lives just like this," he whispered into her ear. Then, he let her go, watching on with longing as she eased out of his embrace and stood, disappearing from the room.

*****

Sara passed the day preparing herself for the journey ahead of them. She knew she needed to be strong, to fight her illness, in order for them to get away. If she was weak and ill, she'd slow the two, possibly three, of them down. It would take all of her strength to make the journey, but she'd summon it.

The morning passed with her lying in bed, thinking about her child and the hope that they could actually escape and also thinking about Rosita. Despite all she, herself, had endured in just six weeks, she could not stop her heart from breaking for the older woman. She prayed she'd never have to endure as much, though, distantly it felt as though she'd nearly had. Not quite, she reminded herself. She had not yet lost a child, though if they were unsuccessful in their escape attempt, the possibility of losing the child growing inside of her would be very real. She also had Gilberto. Rosita, too, had Gilberto, in her own way, though not in the way that Sara had. Rosita had the love of a brother to help see her through, but not the love of a soul mate, not the love of someone whose presence alone could comfort her immeasurably.

There was a soft knock on the door. It opened slowly, just a crack, and Rosita poked her head in. "Good morning, Sara. How are you feeling?"

Sara studied her. She seemed so strong, yet as Sara looked closer, she could see the sadness in Rosita. "I'm feeling better."

"Good. Do you need anything?"

She shook her head and then stopped. She needed so much, wanted so much. She needed to know the child she was carrying would be safe from harm. She wanted Rosita out of the house just as much as Gilberto did. She wanted Rosita to experience just a little happiness, to perhaps see her father one more time. She wanted Gilberto's heart to be at ease. Gilberto would be heartbroken to have failed any one of them in the house, but maybe apart from failing her, she felt that his failing Rosita would be the most distressing. "Rosita?"

Rosita slipped in the door, closing it. "Yes?"

"Will you come with us?"

Rosita shook her head. "No."

"Please. You've endured enough. Come with us, for your father, for Gilberto…" she paused, thinking of all Rosita had done for her, taken care of her, escorted her to Gilberto, kept hers and Gilberto's secret and risked much to do so. To leave Rosita in that house would hurt her so. "For me."

"I cannot. I have to stay here for the other girls."

"Gilberto needs you. He needs to know you'll be safe from harm."

Rosita smiled softly. "I'll be fine. Gilberto needs you, Sara. He needs to get you to safety."

"He needs that for both of us."

The bed dipped as Rosita sat down on its edge. "Sara, his heart will ache at the thought of leaving any of us behind. He will be torn, but if he ever has a chance at true happiness, he will need to see you and the child you carry safe above all others. For me to be at peace, I need that too. I need for him to have that chance at happiness that I can never have, not anymore, just as I need to stay here and watch out for the safety of the other girls."

Sara felt a tear slide down her cheek. She was about to protest when her thoughts were interrupted by noise down below. Her mouth open, Sara froze in place, feeling dread pass over her. A chill traveled up her spine and she shivered, knowing what the noise meant. Malik was back.

Beside her, Rosita had frozen as well. Sara could see the fear crossing Rosita's face. Slowly Rosita stood and glanced down at her. "I must go. Malik…"

Sara nodded.

"He cannot know you are ill. He'll ask too many questions and I will not be able to keep the truth from him. I'll do what I can to keep him from asking for you tonight."

"Rosita, please come with us."

Rosita slipped from the room without responding. Sara fell back on the bed, distressed by her own failure.

*****

Gilberto walked the grounds with Hassan, talking softly, but barely paying attention to their conversation. Instead, he surveyed the area around them, searching for a route off the grounds. He studied each plant and object in the garden, cataloguing which would be best to conceal him and Sara and hopefully Rosita. He took note of the guards and where they stood, the area they patrolled. Such information would change at night, surely, but he felt that he could at least get a general idea of the guard that would be placed around the garden at night.

Most difficult, perhaps, was finding an exit off the grounds. The grounds were protected by walls, high barriers with only one main entrance, gated and protected by guards. Slipping out the gate would be nearly impossible. He figured he could scale the wall, but with Sara carrying a child inside her, he did not think she could without great risk. His eyes continued to scan, focusing on the line of the wall. The line was uneven, cresting in places, but dipping down in others, having taken a battering at some time. As he and Hassan continued to walk, Gilberto found the place he was looking for. Hidden from the house, a far trek within the grounds, and concealed by trees, part of the wall had been blown out, likely by the raiding Moors when they'd attacked the Visigoth Lords who had inhabited the place before. The location meant having to cross more of the grounds than originally planned, but with many places to conceal them, the damaged wall offered them an escape.

As he and Hassan strolled back towards the main house, his part in the conversation picked up. His eyes still studied each guard, each plant, each article within the grounds as he planned his route to the exposure in the wall, but his heart was lighter, as hope sprung in him. There was a chance.

As they neared the house, sounds of horses met them. Gilberto paused, glancing quickly at Hassan. Hassan closed his eyes briefly before taking another step forward. Gilberto matched his pace as they stepped into the courtyard, watching Malik dismount from his horse.

Behind Malik, two of Malik's men grasped a young girl by the arms and escorted her inside. The girl was older, perhaps, than some of the other women Malik had picked up, maybe seventeen or eighteen in years, but still very beautiful, light brown hair and piercing green eyes that contained none of the fear and none of the anger that the other girls had displayed. Gilberto cocked his head as the young girl stared at him, her gaze fixed, burning into his with its intensity. Then, she turned her head forward, almost haughtily and let herself be escorted in.

Just then, Malik spotted them. He smiled widely, approaching with a grin. "Did you see my latest purchase? Beautiful, yes? Not quite Laila, never Laila, for no woman could match Laila, but still pure, a new maiden whose maidenhood will be gifted to me."

Gilberto shuttered, not even attempting to conceal it. Beside him, Hassan looked down at the ground.

"Dhakiy," Malik continued, "you must at once to town and purchase her gifts befit for her. Clothing, silks, jewelry. Hassan, you will escort him."

Gilberto nodded and turned towards the gate. Hassan walked beside him, the two men quiet as they wandered towards the town.

In town, he picked out cloths and jewelry for Malik's new girl while Hassan stood quietly beside him. Gilberto took consolation in the girl's attitude back at the house. Either she was resigned to her fate and entering into the situation with her head high or she welcomed that fate. Sadly, it was not inconceivable that she could have welcomed it. Rochelle had welcomed it, being taken from an impoverished family and given gifts that turned her head, food, a bed to sleep in…. Still, there was something in the girl's look that suggested that neither thought was accurate. Gilberto fingered a silk, puzzling over it and over the timing of it, briefly wondering…

Skirts and scarves and veils in hand, Gilberto strolled towards the merchants carrying jewelry. He passed by Vasquez's shop and asked Hassan to excuse him for a moment. Hassan nodded understandingly and Gilberto approached the aging man. "Hello Vasquez."

The old man smiled tenderly. "Gilberto."

Gilberto took a deep breath. "Vasquez, it is important that I talk to you."

The color left in the aging man drained away. "What is it?" he asked quickly.

Taking a deep breath, Gilberto led the man inside. He turned to Vasquez, his voice low. "I am planning on escaping from Malik's captivity."

Vasquez stared at him. He took another deep breath. "The young woman I am in love with is carrying a child and I have to get her out of there." He paused for a moment as Vasquez sat stock still. "I have begged Rosita to come along but she will not."

Vasquez dropped quickly, Gilberto barely catching him before Vasquez's weight completely gave out. He held the man who'd helped raise him, trying to hold the nearly dead weight up. Thankfully, Hassan came rushing into the shop and helped him seat Vasquez. Hassan glanced between him and the slumped over Vasquez with worry. "Gilberto what happened? Is he not well?"

Gilberto stared at Hassan, guilt flooding him. He shook his head. Hassan placed a hand on Gilberto's arm. "I will get him some water from the well."

Hassan disappeared and Gilberto kneeled before Vasquez, placing his hands on Vasquez's legs. "I am so sorry. I would do anything to get her out of there if I could. Know that I am still trying, but her mind is fixed."

Vasquez nodded, his head hung low, breaths short.

"She has a message for you. She asked me to tell you that she loves you and that to stay is her choice."

Another nod, barely decipherable, came from Vasquez. Vasquez's face lifted to his. One hand landed a-top one of his. Vasquez's voice was soft. "You need to get your love out of there."

Gilberto nodded.

"Tell me, will Rosita be in any danger?"

He shook his head. "No. Malik fairly leaves her be."

It was silent for a moment before Vasquez's voice perked up slightly. The brave face that had etched his features the entire time Gilberto had known the man was back in place. Vasquez met his eyes. "When do you plan on attempting your escape?"

"Tonight if possible. If not, tomorrow night, the next night, the first available opportunity."

"Will you need anything?"

Gilberto lifted his face to Vasquez. "Vasquez, no, I will not have you risk anything for us."

"Gilberto, son, what will you need?"

He paused a moment and sighed, studying the aging man. He realized it might help Vasquez to feel of some use, to be able to do something for him. Vasquez, who had felt so utterly useless since his daughter was taken, may need to help him. "A place to pass a night and a day and some form of transport."

"Come here. I will hide you in my cart, in the space beneath my balms and herbs. It will be uncomfortable, but it is the best I can do."

Gilberto stood. "Vasquez…thank you."

"Will you pass on a message to Rosita for me?"

"Certainly. You know I will."

"Tell her to be safe. Tell her I love her. Tell her how proud I am of her."

Just then, Hassan returned, carrying a container of water, kneeling before Vasquez. He offered the water. "Here," Hassan spoke softy, holding out the container, "please drink."

With Hassan's help, Vasquez took a sip. "Thank you."

Hassan stood up, dropping the hand that had fallen gently on Vasquez's back. "You will be alright?"

Gilberto watched Vasquez as Hassan's words floated through the room. Vasquez looked straight at him. "Yes. I will be alright."

Gilberto smiled softly and left the shop, glancing back at Vasquez. Hassan looked back at the old man as well, concern still evident on his features. Then, he put a hand on Gilberto's shoulder, and walked by his side as he finished his task. "Come Gilberto, we do not need to get back to the house immediately. Let us take the long route home."


	37. The Spaniard, XIII

**The Spaniard, XIII**

The walk back to the house did much to ease Gilberto's heart after what had happed at Vasquez's. The experience had left him shaken, but he was thankful for Hassan's compassion and understanding. It was late in the afternoon by the time Gilberto and Hassan returned to the house with clothing and jewelry in hand. Malik was waiting in the entrance when they arrived, his movements anxious, though surprisingly, he did not appear angry at the time they took. Gilberto handed Malik the gifts wordlessly and turned to leave, but Malik stopped him, insisting he and Hassan accompany him in the study. Gilberto raised a brow at Malik's request and pleasant mood, but accompanied him still, wondering if the new girl's cooperation was the reason for Malik's agreeable mood. Following Malik into the study, he cast a questioning glance at Hassan who could only shrug.

Gilberto took a seat next to Hassan, watching Malik intently. Malik spun around, seemingly about to launch into some speech when his intentions were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Malik closed his mouth and smiled widely. Gilberto's eyes shot to the door, watching as Rosita entered, escorting the new girl inside.

Malik's new girl stood in the middle of the room facing him, giving Gilberto the opportunity to study her. Her head was tilted down, her eyes cast on the floor, submissive and in total contrast to the posture she'd held when he'd first observed her on the grounds. He looked closer and noticed that the corners of her lips seemed to be turned up into a slight smile. He furrowed his brow, cocking his head as he leaned forward for a better look. Before his eyes, the smile disappeared, replaced by a straight mouth, expressionless. He quickly cast a glance towards Malik, his brow still furrowed. Malik, seemingly, had not noticed the smile. Gilberto's eyes moved back towards the girl, watching closely to see if that same subtle, hidden smile would again appear.

The perusal of the new girl was disrupted by Malik springing to life. Malik sat the girl down and made a great show of teaching her the name he'd chosen for her. Malik's finger pointed at the girl. "Zahirah," he spoke, pointing at her again. "Zahirah." The same motion was repeated again, Malik pointing to his own chest and sounding out his name. The girl smiled softly, her eyes, sparkling, quickly glancing to Gilberto and back to Malik, leaving Gilberto to stare back, brow furrowed, wondering what those eyes were hiding.

Introductions finished, Malik made an even greater show of presenting the gifts to the girl, appearing as a benefactor rather than a man in possession of her, a man who would use her body and cast her spirit aside. Gilberto had seen this act before, the charismatic Malik, who charmed the girls that did not fight him. Malik treated Rochelle like that too, when she'd arrived, and reportedly, others before. They were always the first girls Malik grew bored of. He'd once told Gilberto that the girls who did not have the passion to fight would never have the passion to truly make love. Sara's fight, her passion, was probably what Malik desired most about her, even more than her stunning beauty and striking eyes. Even though Sara had grown compliant, Gilberto wondered if Malik could still sense the fight in her. It could not be said that Malik did not desire the spirit he worked to break and cast aside. Malik loved a challenge, though he seemed willing enough to put aside that desire for a greater one. Above all, Malik loved to bed a virgin, to be the one to take a girl's maidenhood. If no pleasure of the fight could be found in this compliant girl, Malik would still have the pleasure of stealing her virginity.

As Gilberto watched the interaction between Malik and the girl, wondered if that would be Malik's only pleasure. This girl seemed quite cooperative. Upon receiving each gift, the girl's eyes lit up more. She'd clasped her hands together, stand quickly and direct a beaming smile towards Malik. "Gracias. Muchos gracias, Senore." The motions would be repeated as she sat again for her next gift. Her voice rose as she held each new item in her hands, her actions spurring Malik on, delighting him, as he, uncharacteristically, bestowed all of his gifts on her at once.

Once Malik had finished, the young woman stood and turned to Gilberto and Hassan. "Could the two of you help me with my things?"

The two men rose, picking up each item Malik had given the girl and bundling the items in their arms. Following her, they carried the bundles from the room, into the foyer. They were about to turn into the temporary room given to the girl, Malik and Rosita close behind, when the girl suddenly stopped by the front entrance. "Take my gifts outside please."

Gilberto looked at the girl, his eyebrows furrowing once again. He gaped at her, frozen, watching with trepidation and curiosity as the girl turned to Malik and said, in near perfect Arabic, "I am a Moslem. You cannot enslave me."

Gilberto's eyebrows lifted to his forehead. Beside him, Hassan stood just as bewildered as he, mouth wide open. They exchanged another glance, one full of shock and bafflement. Slowly, Gilberto shifted his glance to Malik, fearing what he was about to see.

Malik's eyes were wide as well. He stared straight ahead, his gaze intense, unreadable. Gradually, Malik's eyes morphed, shock still evident, but fury building as he stared pointedly at the girl.

The foyer was deadly silent. Gilberto and Hassan remained absolutely still, almost paralyzed by the scene unfolding. With each second that passed, the intensity in Malik's eyes grew. The shock gave way to the anger. Malik moved to grab the girl but she stepped back beyond his reach, her own eyes now burning with intensity. Again, the near perfect Arabic sounded from her lips. "There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his messenger."

Malik stilled and then took a menacing step forward, his hand raised in the air, ready to strike. The girl faced off against him, her stare piercing Malik's and holding the other three in the room captive. Her voice grew low. "By Allah, you will not touch me."

Malik stepped forward again. Beside him, Gilberto was faintly aware of Hassan moving, stepping in between Malik and the girl. "Malik, you must let her go."

"I should kill her."

"No, Malik," Hassan spoke, his works coming out delicately, "you cannot. The fault is as much yours for purchasing her. She is a Muslim. You must let her go."

When Malik stepped back, Gilberto breathed a sigh of relief. The girl smiled and beckoned him with her finger, indicating he and Hassan should follow with her things. He did not move, glancing at Malik, still waiting to step in should something happen.

"Go!"

Gilberto followed the girl outside. He and Hassan carried the girl's gifts to the gate. Hassan had the guard open the gate and they handed the girl her bundles. They stood side by side, watching as a man stepped down from a horse and helped her carry the bundles to a waiting cart. The man helped the girl into the cart, smiling at her and kissing her as Gilberto looked on with an open mouth, stunned at all that had happened, at the girl and the discovery of the reason for her smile, at what was hidden in her eyes, at the way she feigned absolute delight and shyness with Malik. He wondered if the man now with the girl had posed as the slave trader, and if so, how much had Malik paid for the girl, oblivious that he'd been purchasing a Muslim. Between the payment and Malik's gifts, the couple would have made off with quite a profit.

The cart disappeared from sight. Gilberto kept staring ahead at where the horse and cart had been and at the dust that had replaced it. Beside him, Hassan shook his head and let out a hearty laugh that surprised him. Gilberto would have laughed too, only he was still too stunned and he knew too well the mood that would greet him when he reentered the house. Malik would not take getting conned lightly and Gilberto feared the repercussions. It also appeared he may have to face those repercussions alone. Hassan, still chuckling, patted his back. "Forgive me, Gilberto, but after all of that, I must take a walk. It certainly was unexpected."

"Yes," Gilberto replied quietly, "it certainly was." He sighed and turned back towards the house alone.

*****

Malik's face was red when Gilberto returned inside. His clenched fists where a nearly ghastly white, but for the angry red and blue veins crossing the backs of them. His eyes were filled with absolute fury. He was pacing back and forth while Rosita watched from the bottom step. Gilberto stepped inside, closing the door softly.

"Narwar, get me Laila!"

Gilberto stepped forward quickly, eyes wide, thinking only of protecting Sara and the child she was carrying. In his mood, Malik would not be gentle, and Gilberto already feared what past damage could do to Sara's chances in delivering a child. He was ready to intervene, but Rosita was quicker. "She has not finished her bleed," Rosita lied, the words coming out quickly.

Gilberto held his breath, waiting for Malik to see the lie in Rosita's eyes, but Malik was too enraged and too preoccupied to look for it. Growing angrier by the second, Malik hadn't stopped his pacing to even look at Rosita. "Then get me Buthayna."

Neither Rosita nor Gilberto spoke. Rosita did not move. Malik turned to her, his eyes dangerous and ominous, warning her. His voice was low. "I said, 'get me Buthayna'."

Rosita still did not move. Malik stared at her and then stormed past her, slamming her into the rail as he climbed the steps, two at a time. Malik disappeared into Chantal's room and reappeared mere seconds later, grasping the child by the arm, dragging her down the stairs.

"Malik, no, not like this," Gilberto tried to interject, but Malik continued on, dragging Chantal along behind him.

Rosita approached Malik quickly, wedging herself between Malik and the child. "Malik," she spoke softly, her tone surprising to Gilberto. She placed a kiss on Malik's collarbone and began suckling his neck. "Come, let me take you to bed and give you pleasure."

Malik's response was to let go of Chantal, grasp Rosita by the shoulders and shove her to the floor, out of his way. Gilberto stepped towards Rosita, but upon seeing Malik grab Chantal's arm again, he changed direction. "No, Malik!"

In a flash, Malik's hand came across his face. The motion was so fast, he did not have time to stop it or even to prepare himself for it. The shock of it caused him to stumble and fall to the floor. Malik glared down at Gilberto, stomping a foot on his chest. Gilberto coughed and wheezed, the pain quick and intense.

"Sahib!" Malik called out.

Sahib appeared over him, beside Malik, looking down at him. Sahib's face turned to Malik. "Yes, Malik?"

"Go into town and get me a virgin."

From his place on the floor, Gilberto could only watch as Sahib smiled and disappeared. He tried to grab Malik by the ankle, but Malik only shook off his feeble attempt. He could not stop Malik as the man took hold of Chantal once again and pulled her down the corridor.

Gilberto sat up with difficulty, coughing from the effort. His face stung from Malik's quick and powerful blow. He felt a heavy pressure on his chest, as though there was something pressing down on it. He looked over at Rosita. "Are you alright?"

She nodded. "Are you?"

He sucked in a breath, ignoring the pain and nodded in return. Looking down the passage to where Malik had disappeared, he vowed to get Sara out right away. He could not keep her in that house any longer. Furthermore, he could not leave Chantal there either. He would get her out as well. Gilberto looked back towards Rosita. "Rosita, we're getting out tonight. Please, I beg you, come with us."

Rosita shook her head. He did not attempt to argue.

"I'm taking Chantal."

Rosita met his eyes and nodded softly. "Good."

*****

Gilberto waited until all was quiet in the night. The sounds of the house had died down to nothing and all that remained was for Chantal to return to her room. His plan was to get Chantal ready, alert Sara and implore Rosita to join them one last time. In his mind, he could see the route they would take, the path through the grounds, the vegetation that would provide little niches to hide in. Every inch of the garden was carved into his memory and his mind went over those inches again and again. When the stairs creaked and he slid out of his room, along the rail to the top of the stairs, his plans were forgotten. At the bottom of the steps, Rosita was slowly escorting Chantal, a hand under Chantal's bent arm, helping the child along.

Chantal was limping. Each step seemed an effort. The child had to pause and rest after stepping up a new level, one hand on the rail, the other being supported by Rosita. She was clutching her nightgown to her body. Blood dripped down her leg, gathering on her foot. Gilberto's heart stopped. For the first time since Malik had taken Chantal into the house, he had not been gentle with the child. It was more than obvious that Malik had brutalized her.

Gilberto rushed down the steps, not worrying about the noise his frantic pace might make. His heart in his throat, he stopped in front of the girls, guiding Rosita out of the way. He lifted the child into his arms and carried her up the remaining flight of stairs. Rosita opened the door to Chantal's room for him so that he could carry her inside and gently lay her on the bed. Rosita took over from there, climbing onto the bed with Chantal and holding the child in her arms.

He looked down at the two females, one very much a woman, as beautiful in spirit as in looks and one still a child who'd learned cruelty too young. Watching Rosita stroke the hair of the girl, he could not look away. It would pain him so to leave Rosita behind, but he saw how the girls needed her. He would get Chantal out, but not that night. He could not get her to safety having to carry her and she was in no condition to walk. He dropped his head, kneeling down to reach out a comforting hand, but Chantal flinched at the motion. Withdrawing his hand, he ran it through his hair. Rosita gazed at him with sympathy. "I'll stay with her tonight."

Gilberto nodded, pulling the blanket over the girls and rising onto his feet.

"It may be best if you didn't sleep with Sara tonight."

He nodded again, looking to the door. Sara would be waiting for him. "I need to tell her we'll be delayed a night."

Rosita nodded. She looked at him, a soft warning in her eyes. "I would not linger."

"I won't." He paused, glancing down at the child who had buried her face in Rosita's bosom. "Goodnight, Rosita."

"Goodnight."

*****

Sara sat on her bed, waiting for Gilberto to come, hoping the night would bring their escape. She watched as the door opened and Gilberto entered slowly, his face full of anguish. He crossed the room, sitting on the edge of her bed, taking her hand in his. "Sara, we can't get away tonight."

She stared at him, knowing there was more he wanted to say but was struggling to find the words. It pained her to see him so nearly defeated. Lifting her free hand to his face, she brushed her thumb softly over his cheek bone while her finger tips wisped across his neck. Gilberto's face turned into her hand, tipping it down to kiss her palm. Her eyes closed at the tender press of his lips to her skin. When the feel of his lips passed, she opened her eyes, finding his gaze had dropped to his lap. She shuffled closer, hoping he could find comfort in her proximity and giving him the time to find his words though it was an effort to bite back the urge to fill the silence. Slowly, Gilberto's face lifted, his eyes diving deep into hers. "Sara, Malik has hurt Chantal badly, nearly as badly as he hurt you."

Sara closed her eyes. There was a pause, a minute where Gilberto was silent and she took in what he'd said. Then, he continued. "I cannot leave her here with him. She needs to rest tonight, but tomorrow, with our help, she should be able to move. We'll steal away then."

She nodded, remembering all too well the pain that had accompanied Malik's attacks. She could not leave Malik with the child either. She also did not like the thought of the child being alone, in pain, that night. "Where is she?"

"Resting in her room. Rosita is with her."

The words were a relief. Sara squeezed Gilberto's hand giving him what she hoped was an upbeat smile. "What is one more night?"

Gilberto's silence in response frightened her, but she did not let it show. Carrying the worry of all of them, he needed her support now. She forced another optimistic smile, trying to give him whatever strength she could, trying to share the burden. "This time tomorrow, we will be leaving." She lay on her back, tugging at his hand, trying to pull him down with her. "Come, let's get a good night's rest."

Gilberto remained still above her. His voice sounded hesitantly. "Given what has happened, and what we are about to embark on tomorrow, I do not think we should risk sleeping together." He paused a moment. "I am going to sleep in my own room tonight."

Sara stared up at him. "If you think it's best."

"I do."

She nodded. Gilberto leaned forward, his arms bracing him as his head hovered over hers. She stared up, waiting for him to close the remaining distance. His kiss was soft. Her eyes drifted closed as his lips lingered. His thumb played over her brow and he whispered, "Rest well, sweet heart."

Sara smiled against his lips and kissed him again. "You too."


	38. The Spaniard, XIV

**The Spaniard, XIV**

The door to his room slammed open, startling Gilberto awake. His gaze shot to the door and he flew up, half laying, half sitting, resting on his elbows and finding Malik in the doorway, staring at him with cold eyes and a piercing gaze. Gilberto's arm flew beside him, patting the empty bed and breathing a quick, near relieved sigh upon remembering he was alone. Quickly his mind took action, wondering at the intrusion and hoping Malik had come trying to catch him at something and would leave him alone upon finding nothing. He was so very thankful that he and Sara spent the night apart and just as thankful that they hadn't attempted to escape. With Malik pacing about in the night, they never would have made it off the grounds.

He began to have his doubts about Malik's motives for coming into his room at night though when Malik only stood in the door way, watching him, staring hard and long. Malik didn't seem to be moving, or leaving or doing anything to suggest that he'd come just to catch Gilberto in the act of something. No, Malik just continued to glare vehemently at him. The steely gaze, eyes so full of hatred, bore into him, paralyzing him, keeping him still in his bed, waiting. Then, in one quick motion, Malik was crossing the room towards his bed. Before Gilberto could spring up and defend himself, Malik had a hand around his throat, pushing him down and choking him.

Gilberto arched up, struggling for air. He kicked his feet up, pounded on Malik's back, clawed at Malik's hand, but Malik held firm, cutting off all air from entering his body. Gilberto continued to grasp at Malik's hand, losing strength by the second. Just when he thought he was going to pass out, Malik picked him up by the throat and threw him to the floor. Gasping for breath, a painful, dry burning in his throat, Gilberto could only stare up at Malik.

"Get up!" Malik shouted, standing over him.

Gilberto's hand moved from his throat to his chest as his lungs continued to suck in oxygen. He moved to get up, but found the effort exhausting, coughing from the exertion.

"I said, get up, Dhakiy!" Malik grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. He felt Malik thrust him forward towards the door, pushing him through it and towards the steps.

When the reached the top of the stair, Malik grabbed his arm again and thrust him down. He tumbled, landing at the bottom of the stair, his head shooting with pain.

Malik was standing over him again, trembling with rage, eyes burning and temple throbbing. Once again, Malik yanked him to his feet, keeping a hand on his arm and thrusting him forward. Being pushed and shoved down one corridor and then another, into another wing of the house, Gilberto found himself, for the first time ever, looking into Malik's room. He paled at the sight.

Off to the side of the bed, beside a fallen knife, in a crumpled heap, back on the floor, knees bent towards stomach, face tilted to the side, throat slit, was a young houseboy. One glance and Gilberto knew what had happened. The boy, only fourteen years old, had been the one sent to kill Malik. Gilberto glanced away, his head dropping with sadness. Gabriel, named for the angel, and with a manner so angelic, even Malik would not rename him, had been sent in as an assassin and had met a terrible end. It was such a terrible waste, an example of how Malik's cruelty could cause a gentle soul to attempt an awful and awfully stupid act. How much hatred could that young man have been harboring to allow Sergio to put him up to such an act of foolishness? How much abuse had Malik doled out on the gentle, delicate, fragile boy before the boy decided he could take no more? How close had the boy gotten before Malik woke and slit his throat and did the boy even have time to know what hit him? To feel any pain? He could see the boy trembling as he inched towards Malik, full of fear, of apprehension, and possibly of guilt. He could see the boy holding the knife over Malik, hands shaking, silently talking himself into plunging the knife downward. He could see Malik waking and slashing the boy's throat so fast that the boy could only sputter and fall back in surprise.

A tear slipped down Gilberto's cheek. He closed his eyes as his heart was filled with guilt, with guilt and with grief. He moved to towards the boy, kneeling down beside him, but before he could reach out to touch the boy's face, Malik grabbed him, lifting him and propelling him out of the room. Gilberto stood, watching the cold hatred and fury in Malik's eyes. "Did you have anything to do with that?" Malik spat.

Gilberto shook his head, not able to voice any words, sadness filling his heart.

"Did you? Did you send that slave, that eunuch, to my room to knife me?"

"No," he whispered softly.

"I don't believe you!" Malik shouted. "That boy was too weak to do this on his own. Did you have any part in this?"

Again, Gilberto shook his head. He watched as Malik turned to the guards, yelling in Arabic, "Get me Laila!"

Gilberto's heart stopped. His chest tightened in pain. He wanted to cry out, to stop Malik, to run and grab the knife the boy had dropped and stab Malik himself, do what the boy couldn't. It was only the knowledge that he'd fail that stopped him. He would be dead beside the boy and Sara would have to endure his punishment. Somehow, he remained composed.

He chanced a glance at the guards. They'd not moved yet. They were looking at Malik, eyes wide. Gilberto realized that they did not know who Laila was. Malik realized the same. "The one I take most often! The one with deep brown eyes and slender, perfect lines that you had such a hard time keeping your hands off of when she first came to my room!"

Both guards nodded quickly, fearful of Malik's anger. Malik grabbed him and began to push him down the corridor. Malik stopped at the cross section of halls, the square of it forming a small room. He threw Gilberto down and unsheathed his knife. Gilberto stared at the curved blade, glistening in the dark of the night.

Malik's voice grew low, cold and even. "I'm asking you again, Dhakiy, before Laila gets here, did you put that boy up to that?"

He wondered, momentarily, if he said yes, if it would spare Sara any pain. He knew that it wouldn't. Only getting Malik to believe the truth would spare Sara. He stood up slowly, meeting Malik's eyes.

"No."

The guards entered at that moment, carrying a frightened Sara by her arms. They threw her to Malik. Malik grabbed her quickly, pulling her back to his chest, holding her around her shoulder. The blade of his knife met her throat.

Gilberto nearly collapsed from the stress on his heart. There was so much pressure on it, he was barely able to stand under the strain. It beat painfully in his chest, trying to break free of him. Never before had he known such fear. He met Sara's eyes and felt his heart drop, no more painful beating against his chest as it now sat in his stomach, his gut twisting around it. His chest was now an empty cavity, empty of his heart, empty of breath. Malik stared at him, his gaze boring into Gilberto's eyes. He forced himself to hold the stare, not letting his eyes falter while Malik searched for the truth.

Time seemed to stand still, the seconds feeling like minutes, the minutes feeling like hours. Gilberto continued to stare, his eyes only shifting every few seconds from Malik's to look at the knife pressed to Sara's throat, to the blade so close to cutting into her skin. Inside he was dying. He felt so useless, so impotent. He couldn't move. Malik was so calm it frightened him beyond measure. Where was the Malik filled with hatred and fury, the Malik who shook with rage and throbbed in anger? This calm, calculating Malik was far more terrifying. This Malik would kill Sara in an instant, was prepared to kill her in an instant. This Malik was so horrifyingly detached. Sara, Malik's prize, the only girl anyone had ever confused Malik's desire for love, was now only a means to an end. Malik would slit her throat as though it didn't mean anything. Gilberto couldn't breathe. The only thing he could do was hold Malik's stare.

"Did you send that boy to kill me?"

"No," he maintained, hoping Malik would see the truth. He had no part in it, had wanted no part in it. "Please," he implored.

"Please, what?"

"Let her go." He stared at Malik, begging with his eyes. He could no longer hide the fact that Sara was his greatest weakness, that it was killing him to see her with the knife pressed to her throat. Malik had known it, had sent for Sara knowing it. Her life was now in his hands and the hope of seeing her out of there, safe and with child was his only strength. He willed Malik to see the truth, to let her go. He spoke very slowly, evenly. "Malik, I did not send that boy." He paused, maintaining eye contact, but speaking very softly, solemnly, "I would not send a boy to his death."

Malik stared at him for seconds longer before dropping the knife from Sara's throat and thrusting her onto the floor. Gilberto let out all the breath he'd been holding. Then, just as the air left his body, Nijad entered the cross section, out of breath. "Malik, there is an uprising in town."

Malik spun towards Nijad, waking from whatever trance he'd been in. "What?"

"Fighting broke out. Some of the locals are up in arms." Nijad paused. "Sahib is dead."

Sahib. Gilberto had forgotten about him. Sahib had been sent into town for a virgin and was likely ambushed in town, running into Sergio's men. The girl who would have been taken by Sahib had been spared Malik, but, realized Gilberto, Chantal may have paid for that girl's freedom. How long did Malik continue to hurt Chantal waiting for Sahib to arrive with a young maiden? He shook his head in sorrow.

Malik, ever the warrior, did not take the time to mourn Sahib's passing. "Get someone to get me my horse. Have it ready for me. Tell the men to tighten the guard around the building."

"It's already done."

Malik nodded and then turned to his guards. "Take them back to their rooms and set up guard by the stairs." He tilted his head in Sara's direction. "If I find out you so much as touched her, I will kill you." The words were spoken to the guards, but Gilberto knew they were meant for him as well.

The guards nodded and Malik turned to leave. He turned back quickly, eyeing the guards. "And get rid of that body in my room. Wake that decrepit ugly maid and have her clean up the blood."

Gilberto watched as Malik sprinted from the room, following Nijad. One guard took Sara's arm, pulling her along. The other guard held him, tugging on him as he limped in pain, his back now hurting from being pushed down the stairs. He watched Sara ahead of him. She was trembling and he imagined that only part of it was from terror, the rest from anger. If he could get her away that night, he would. It looked impossible though, dangerous to try to slip past the all of the guards and likely perilous to try to make it to Vasquez's with all the fighting outside, with Malik outside. As he followed, distress weighing on his heart, he could only shiver with fear. He could not even summon the anger.

*****

There was no sleep to be had that night. Gilberto could only sit on his bed, listening to the waves of sounds as they passed through the house, the periods of silence more disturbing than the sounds of activity. It was an eerie quiet, unsettling as his mind and heart engaged in their own battle.

His heart begged him to grab Sara and flee with her. It pleaded with him not to wait any longer. It cried with anguish over what had happened that night and what could happen if they stayed any longer. It reminded him of the fear he'd experienced when Malik called for Sara and the terror he felt when he watched as Malik calmly held a knife to her throat. It kept up its incessant pounding, not allowing him a second's peace.

His mind, on the other hand, told him to stay. It warned him that a clean escape would be impossible, that even if he and Sara managed to get off the grounds, past all the guards, past all of the activity, they would not make it any further. He knew that any locals caught on the street that night would be killed, or worse, taken to Malik. With the fighting on the streets, the searching for accomplices in the uprising, there would be nowhere to hide. Though it was hard to do, this doing nothing, though it tore right through his heart, Gilberto had to follow his mind.

When dawn finally broke, Gilberto could hear the heavy steps of men reenter the house. He cracked his door open and slid through the small opening, peaking out over the banister, seeing Malik and Nijad, Imran and Amid step through the foyer, looking battle weary and speaking in hushed Arabic. Shaking his head, he stepped quietly back into his room.

A few hours later, Gilberto chanced moving about the house. Anxious to find out what had happened during the night, he sought out Hassan, wondering if Hassan had any details to pass on. When he found the quiet intellectual, Hassan was just finishing his morning prayer. Hassan rolled up his prayer rug and glanced at Gilberto sadly. Imparting what details he could, Hassan narrated what had occurred during the night. It was as Gilberto had feared. The uprising had been crushed. Nearly all of the men he'd met in the shop cellar two weeks prior, Sergio, Cruz, Santiago and so on, were dead, having met their end on the tip of Malik's blade. Any local caught on the streets had been killed. Any man who'd been suspected of aiding the rebels had been dragged from his home and executed. The Christian forces suffered losses in the hundreds, nearly every one of them killed. Swifter and stronger, the Moors' losses had been few. Apart from Sahib, only two Berbers and two Mamluks had been killed. None of the Arabic leaders sustained much more than a blow. Malik's men were now moving about the town, flushing out information and searching for those few who'd managed to flee. Gilberto shuttered to thin what would happen if any of those men were found.

Gilberto, his face pale and expression grave, thanked Hassan for passing along what he could. For the rest of the day, he moved about the house uneasily, vowing to get Sara out that night. He would not wait any longer.

*****

Malik entered her room late that night. She sat up quickly, fear filling her as she inched back towards the wall, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her fingers lifted to her throat, still feeling the knife pressed against it. She shook her head in fear as Malik crossed the room, kneeling before the bed. He reached for her hand, but she flailed it madly. He reached again and caught her wrist in his hand. She continued to flail with her other arm, making a fist and pounding on his forearm in an attempt to break his grip.

"Laila, forgive me."

She stopped. Shocked by the words, she could only stare at him. His head was bowed. He lifted it. "I was not myself last night. Somebody tried to have me murdered."

"That isn't a common occurrence for you?" She snapped, her fist coming down on his wrist again, too angry to put up with any more.

Malik's eyes flashed and she winced, waiting for the blow. Then, Malik's eyes softened again. "You're angry."

"You held a knife to my throat."

"I'm sorry Laila. It was not to hurt you. You are the world to me."

She stopped again and studied him. He actually had the effrontery to look contrite when everything about his apology was so contrived. Malik lifted her wrist and kissed it, causing her to shudder. He moved onto the bed, lying on his side before her. "Forgive me."

"No." She shook her head, resisting the urge to lift her foot and kick him off the bed, away from her. Why, she wondered, would he even care about her forgiveness?

Malik traced his finger over her bed. "I killed many people last night, people who welcomed us when we came and drove away the Visigoths and then repaid us by attacking us last night, people who we freed and educated and provided for…people who would take you away from me." Malik continued to trace over the bed, his eyes staring down at his finger. He lifted his eyes to hers. "I won't let anyone take you, Laila. You're mine."

Sara stared at him, holding her feet to her. Malik looked back down. "I killed so many, Laila. Alone, I killed more of them then they took from us altogether." He paused. "It started with the boy who tried to have me killed. Those who attacked put that boy up to it and I took his life for it. I slit his throat and watched the life drain from him."

Sara dropped her head, burying her eyes in her knees.

"When I watched him die, I knew someone had put him up to it. He had not the strength to do it alone." Malik took her hand again. "I did not mean to hurt you. Forgive me."

"No," she whispered again, though his words were sinking in and sending a chill through her.

"Laila, I suspected Dhakiy and happily I was wrong, but I had to know."

Sara ripped her hand from his grip. Her eyes flashed up in anger. "You killed all those people. You would have killed me."

"If I had to, yes, but I had to know, Laila." Malik lifted himself onto his knees. He pulled at her ankle so that she was lying beneath him. His fingers brushed back her hair from her face. "I had to know."

"Get away from me."

"You're his weakness, just as you are mine." Malik laid down on her, pinning her to the bed and pressing into her. He kissed her neck where he'd held the knife the night before. She felt so ill.

"Malik, no, don't do this."

"Forgive me." He kissed her neck again. She shivered.

"No."

Malik lifted himself off her, standing quickly. He spun away from her, pacing the room and then spun back towards the bed. His eyes had transformed again, now lit with fury. "You're mine!" he screamed, advancing on her again.

Sara curled up to shield herself. Remembering all she had to protect, she lifted her head. "Please, no. I need some time, Malik."

To her relief, Malik stopped. "Time?"

"Time to forget."

Malik stared at her, his face blank. She stared back, waiting and fearing how he'd respond. There was a soft knock on the door and Sara froze, watching Malik's eyes shoot to the door. Rosita opened the door slowly and stopped in the entrance. She looked between the two. "Oh, forgive me, Malik," she spoke slowly, eyebrows raised and directing a soft look towards Sara.

"Never mind, Narwar. Tell Nahid to get herself ready. Send her to my room when she's finished."

Rosita nodded, eyeing Sara carefully before slipping from the room. Malik turned back to Sara. His voice was deadly calm. "You can have tonight. That should go a long way to helping you to forget."

Sara nodded, watching him leave and feeling a shudder pass as he did. Her anger was gone. She placed a hand on her stomach and remembered how calmly Malik had acted the night before, how uncharacteristically calm he'd just acted. She shivered, the fright she'd refused to acknowledge before passing through her now. He'd been so cool when he'd held the knife to her throat. She remembered the feel of his chest, his heartbeat against her back, slow and steady. She remembered the feel of him, absent of tension, calmly holding onto her and pressing the knife into her. It had not been an act of passion, but a calculated move. If he claimed she was the world to him and he could kill her as though she meant nothing, he was capable of anything. Whatever it took to convince Gilberto that they had to leave that night, Sara would do it. She would not stay in that house any longer.


	39. The Spaniard, XV

**The Spaniard, XV**

Once the sound of Nahid's footsteps reappeared and faded away, Sara began to fidget, wanting to go to Gilberto, but forcing herself to wait, giving the house just a little more time to fall into slumber. She sat on her bed, prepared to leave, counting the seconds as they passed by slowly. She was ready, clothed in her warmest outfit, a blanket wrapped around her, waiting… She practiced what she'd say when Gilberto came to her room or when she entered his, practiced her argument, her pleas, her look of determination, her show of resolve, anything and everything that would give her an advantage in convincing him to leave that night.

Her fingers lifted to her throat once more and she closed her eyes, remembering how close Malik had been to killing her. She remembered the anguish on Gilberto's face, scaring her more than the knife. She could still feel Malik's breath on her neck, in her ear, deep and steady and even. She shivered, tightening her blanket and listening for any passing sounds, the soft steps moving along the creaky floorboards towards her room. She stilled.

*****

He'd wanted to wait until he was certain all was clear before he made his move. Nahid's footsteps had disappeared some time before and the passing minutes of silence had felt like an eternity, time in a gradual slowdown as he attempted to count it. Slipping quietly into Sara's room, he stared at her from inside the doorway. Her face lifted to his and she was up from her seated position, crossing the room in light, quick steps, tip-toeing to avoid stepping on the blanket wrapped around her. She stood in front of him and he gazed at her, lifting his fingers to her face and combing them through her hair. "Are you ready to go?" he whispered.

The breath leaving her body, her frame falling slightly forward and relaxing, was all too visible. He could almost measure her relief. "Yes," she replied, breathing the word out.

Gilberto searched her face. He was in awe of her, in absolute admiration of her. If she felt any fear, there was no sign of it. She stood before him, wrapped up endearingly in her blanket, looking ready and relieved and oh, so strong. His breath caught and he pulled her into his arms, holding her head to his chest. He kissed her crown and released her, stepping back. "Okay," he spoke softly, "let's go."

Digging for her hidden hand beneath the blanket, he took it and led her from the room. He pulled her to Chantal's door, opening it softly and closing it behind them. He let go of Sara's hand and approached the seated Rosita and Chantal, standing before the bed. Chantal, still the girl-child, stared at him with fear in her eyes. It pained his heart. He looked down at Rosita. "Is she ready?"

Rosita closed her eyes and gave a faint nod. "Yes."

He stared at Chantal. She was still looking at him with fear, her gaze flicking to the door and to Sara. Gilberto kneeled before her. "Are you afraid?"

Chantal nodded.

"I am as well." Chantal's eyes widened. He looked upon her with softness. "It's going to be scary, but I promise, you do not have to be afraid of me. I will not hurt you. I want to get you out of here so that Malik can not hurt you any more. Do you think that you can find the courage inside of you to come with me…with us?"

Chantal nodded again, her head moving up and down very slowly.

"Good. Chantal, can you go stand with Sara? Take her hand."

Chantal rose slowly, stepping past him. He glanced over his shoulder as Chantal clasped a small hand on Sara's blanket just above Sara's waist. She looked smaller, more child like in her movements and he realized it was the first time he'd ever seen her display such youthful mannerisms. A small smile, sad but tender, appeared on his face as a touching scene unfolded before him. Sara opened up her blanked and pulled the child in, cocooning Chantal in the security of her arms and the warmth of her blanket.

Gilberto turned back to Rosita. He took a deep breath, his heart pained as he prepared to say goodbye. He stared at the woman he'd grown up with and endured so much with, knowing he'd always reserve a well of tenderness for her. He'd only ever loved four women, the mother he'd never met, Rosita's mother, Rosita and Sara. He'd loved Rosita's mother as a mother and the love he felt for Sara was special and enduring, so intensely deep and all consuming. It was for Sara alone, never to be experienced again, the kind you could only ever give to one person. But, of the women he'd loved, even if his love for Sara was the most powerful, even though he'd loved Sara with everything that was in him, he'd loved Rosita the longest. "Come with us."

Rosita only shook her head.

"Please Rosita, come."

"I'm sorry, Gilberto."

Rosita's expression was sad but firm. She was a nurturer and belonged with those who needed her nurturing. She'd accepted her fate. She would not waver. Gilberto placed his hand over hers. "I will come back for you."

Rosita smiled sadly. "I know you will."

He stared at her, wanting to say more, but the words had escaped him. He opened his mouth, hoping his tongue would find the world he was so desperately searching for.

"Be safe," she whispered.

He nodded, still trying to form words and failing.

"Gilberto, you have to go now."

He nodded again, rising to his feet. Rosita stood as well, giving his hand a parting squeeze. He crossed the room, to the door, wrapping an arm around Sara and Chantal. Glancing back at Rosita one final time, he led Sara and Chantal from the room.

*****

He moved them quietly down the steps and into one corridor. They crept along slowly, nearly silent as few creeks escaped beneath their steps. He led them along the corridor until they came to a large room, a study filled with bound works of Arabic translations, overlooking the garden. Gilberto stopped the two girls, dropping his arm from Sara's shoulders. He slowly pushed open the door, holding his breath at the sound of the hinges squeaking. Taking Sara's hand, he pulled her into the room and led her to the window.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the floorboards, the old wooden walkways making noise as they settled, an intermittent sound here, a brief creak there. It unsettled him and pushed him to remain alert. He felt an anxious feeling run through him. The noises grew more distinct and a chill ran over him. He closed his eyes and hoped that it was only Rosita, following him out to make sure they made it out of the building. He was about to hoist Chantal onto the window ledge when the steps grew closer. He lifted Chantal and whispered to Sara, "Take Chantal and hide in the garden."

Sara shook her head. She addressed Chantal, "Chantal, go, hide." She turned back to Gilberto. "I'm not leaving you."

Gilberto's eyes shot to the door and then flickered back to Sara. "Go, please. I'll find you."

The door cracked open behind them. His breath caught as he turned to the door, watching a large figure, glowing eyes, step into the room.

Gilberto positioned himself in front of Sara, his eyes quickly casting a glance to Chantal, still on the windowsill. He looked back to the door, staring at Malik. Malik glared back at him. In the darkness of the night, it was impossible to make out Malik's expression, but Malik's eyes said enough. "What's this?"

Gilberto said nothing.

"Buthayna, off of that ledge."

Gilberto glanced behind him. Chantal slid onto the floor. Sara gathered the child in her arms. Gilberto turned back to Malik, his heart pounding. Malik's voice had spoken of that terrifying calm only Malik could possess.

The stare continued to linger. Then, Malik's eyes flashed of anger and his knife was unsheathed, the moonlight causing the impossibly long, curved blade to glint menacingly. Malik took a step forward and Gilberto reached back, holding Sara and Chantal behind him.

"Dhakiy?" Malik's eyebrows rose. "I gave you Buthayna for a night to quell your desires and you think you can take both Laila and Buthayna? What makes you think you can take them from me? They're mine."

Gilberto stared at Malik, addressing Sara in a low voice. "Sara, take Chantal and go, please. Get out of here."

Malik stepped closer, pointing his knife at the girls behind Gilberto. "Laila, don't you dare move." Malik raised his knife, taking another step towards Gilberto. "How dare you; how dare you try to take what is mine! Laila is mine! You have bedded her. You have bedded what is mine! You think I didn't know? Did you think you could have fooled me? I saw how you looked at her. I never took you for a fool though. I thought you were smart enough to stay away. How long Dhakiy? How long have you been bedding her?"

Gilberto did not respond. He held his position in front of Sara.

"Answer me!"

He remained silent.

"You impertinent swine! And you think you can take Buthayna too. You, Dhakiy, shall die for your sins."

Malik charged at him. He stepped forward, not wanting any blows to hurt Sara and Chantal. His arms rose in defense. His eyes flashed with fear when Sara dove in front of him. He tried to push her out of the way, but Malik struck her first, the back of his hand knocking her off of her feet. "Whore!"

Malik stepped towards Sara. Gilberto lunged at Malik, grabbing Malik by his wrists, pushing up on his hands as Malik tried to push down and break Gilberto's grip. Malik's strength was greater and Gilberto collapsed to his knees, still grasping onto Malik's wrists. "Sara, go, please!"

Malik thrust his arms to the side, finally breaking Gilberto of his grasp. Gilberto fell to the side and scrambled to his feet. He threw himself at Malik again. Malik swung the knife, but Gilberto ducked just in time. They fought and wrestled and jostled for control of the weapon, but with Malik being quicker, stronger and a far superior fighter, Gilberto was only just barely able to hold Malik off while he searched for something that could give him an advantage. Everything was happening so fast, he could only focus on Malik and countering Malik's moves. Every time Malik threw him off, he threw himself back at Malik, fighting with all that was in him, fear rushing through him. His only thoughts were of Sara's safety. He could not bear the thought of what Malik would do to her if Malik killed him here. If only Sara would take the opportunity to get out.

He fought gallantly, barely staving off Malik's blows. He'd managed to back Malik up, throwing himself at the man. Malik swung his knife again and this time, when Gilberto ducked he was able to grab onto Malik's arms again, stopping Malik from being able to bring the knife down across his body. The hold did not last long. Malik quickly threw him off again, sending him onto his back and started to advance again. Gilberto was utterly exhausted. He'd only managed to hold out this long by sheer determination alone. His heart was racing as he tried, unsuccessfully, to scramble to his feet, falling backwards onto his behind. He edged backwards as Malik edged forward.

And then, it was silent. There may have been a gasp. Gilberto looked up with wide eyes as Malik stood in shock, bringing a hand to the side of his neck and moving that hand into his sight. Malik stared down at his bloody hand and Gilberto stared at Malik. Suddenly, Malik collapsed to the floor, just in front of the door. Gilberto stood quickly and lifted his shocked gaze to Rosita.

Rosita dropped the small knife she'd been holding. Gilberto stared forward, eyes wide as Rosita stared down at her hands. The both watched the blood dripped from her hands, onto Malik. Rosita's mouth was wide open. Her eyes were firmly fixed on her hands. Gilberto couldn't tear his eyes from the sight.

A movement on the floor caught his attention. "Rosita!" he screamed, throwing himself forward.

Rosita glanced up slowly, eyes glazed over. Gilberto's scream did nothing to warn her as Malik lifted his arm and sliced her across the abdomen. The knife fell from Malik's hands and Rosita fell to her knees, and then to the floor. Gilberto kicked the knife away from Malik and dropped to his knees. He pulled Rosita to his lap, pressing down on the gash, trying to stop the flow of blood. The wound was deep and the blood continued to seep between his fingers. Sara handed him her blanket. He pressed it to Rosita's wound, but the flow of blood would not cease. "Rosita, no," he whispered sadly, a tear falling. Beside him, he vaguely heard one last choke sound from Malik as the life left Malik's eyes. He bent forward over Rosita, watching as the life in her eyes began to fade. She stared back at him, whispering something, but her voice was so weak, he could not make it out. She began to choke and blood trickled from her mouth.

"Hold on, Rosita."

Rosita nodded. He could see her fighting, straining to keep her eyes open. He continued to try to stop the flow of blood, but nothing he tried worked. The wound was so very long and deep. Malik had sliced right into her, so deep, more than blood wanted to escape. He continued to press the blanket to her, trying to offer her comfort, silently praying that the bleeding would end. When her eyes closed for the last time, he pulled her body to his chest and wept.

He held Rosita, thinking about how she'd always watched over him. As a child, his curiosity often got the better of him and it was Rosita who pulled him out of scraps. Though younger, even if it was only by a month, Rosita took care of him, ushered him though childhood, served as the faithful and patient companion of his youth. Then, when he returned to Sevilla years later and joined Rosita as a slave in Malik's household, she continued to watch over him despite his promise to her father to watch over her. Even now, she had followed to make certain he made it out of the house and when his escape was threatened, when his life was threatened, she grabbed a knife and threw herself on Malik, sacrificing herself for him.

Gilberto stared at the blood. The blood that had flowed through Rosita did not flow through him but he felt as though it had. She was a sibling, a sister. He'd failed her. He'd failed her father.

There was a shuffling along the floor just outside the door. Gilberto tensed, holding Rosita's body tightly to his frame. A hand gripped his shoulder and only then did he realize that Sara was still beside him, offering him what she could. The grip was now strong and he could feel Sara's fear. When Malik died and the life slipped from Rosita, it had felt as though it was all over. It wasn't. The creaking of the floorboards, the soft steps, were all indications that they were still very much in danger…Sara was still very much in danger. The pain of Rosita's death, raw and excruciating now, would stay with him forever, fading with time, but if he were to lose Sara, the pain would be unbearable. He would never recover from that loss. "Sara, take Chantal and go, now."

"Gilberto…"

"Sara, think of the child"

Sara's grip released. He heard a sob and turned his head, finding that Chantal had been right behind him as well, still in Sara's arms, weeping over the loss of the woman who'd become a guardian. Sara held Chantal and backed towards the window. A shadow appeared in the doorway and Gilberto froze. Hassan stepped inside and given the scene, Gilberto feared the gentle man for the first time ever.

Gilberto watched as Hassan paled. Hassan kneeled before Gilberto, his eyes shifting between the bodies. "Gilberto, what happened?"

"They killed one another."

"What?"

Gilberto took a deep breath. He fought back the sob rising in his throat. As calmly as he could, he related what had happened.

Hassan hung his head, closing his eyes. "I heard noise, probably of you fighting. Others are sure to have heard it. You had best leave now, before they get here."

Gilberto stared at Hassan.

"Get out of here, Gilberto."

"Rosita…"

"Her death will appease the others. I'll take care of her body."

"Hassan…" he paused, easing himself from beneath Rosita's body. "Thank you."

Hassan only nodded.

Gilberto stood and moved to Sara and Chantal. He lifted Chantal to the window, watching as she slid down the other side, landing on her bare feet. Sara followed. He cast a glance back at Hassan and Rosita before climbing out the window and guiding Sara and Chantal to their first hiding place.


	40. The Spaniard, XVI

**The Spaniard, XVI**

She was so cold. The night air had a distinct chill, sending shiver after shiver through her body. She and Chantal, as concubines who were never to leave the house, were scantily attired. Even their warmest cloths offered little coverage. They had no shoes. Her blanket had been lost in a vain attempt to save Rosita, though she would have happily sacrificed all of her clothing and herself to save the woman.

It had been horrifying to watch and so entirely tragic. Rosita's death, like the deaths of her family members, caused an ache so terrible, it nearly dropped her to her knees. A vision passed through her of the slave traders, cutting down her father and brothers. When Rosita died before her very eyes, she wanted to wail as she had that day, but she had held back her own tears, holding onto Chantal as Chantal broke down. Gilberto's sorrow, so intense, left her feeling useless as she struggled to offer comfort. This would haunt her for many years.

Gilberto shed his shirt and passed it to her. She wrapped it around Chantal and stepped into Gilberto's chest, taking warmth from him. They crouched in silence, watching a guard pass not far ahead of them. The guard disappeared and Gilberto guided them to another hiding place.

They slowly maneuvered through the garden, from one hiding place to the next, watching the guards pass in front of them, oblivious to their presence. Each time a guard passed, Sara felt her breath catch, waiting to be discovered. The guards, though, would pass right in front of them and they would remain undisturbed. Gilberto seemed to have their routes timed. He knew how long it would be before the guards circled back, how long they'd have to reach another concealed spot. It took some time, but they navigated the garden until they came to the wall. Her eyes widened when she saw how part of the wall was missing.

Gilberto guided her up some rubble and she sat on the remains of the wall. She held out her hand, helping Chantal up. Gilberto followed and jumped off the other side of the wall. She helped Chantal slip into his arms and waited for him to place Chantal on the ground. His arms lifted and she slid down the wall, into his embrace.

Gilberto guided them away from the wall immediately. The area around the wall was so open and they had to hurry to find a place to obscure them. Chantal's steps dragged, slowing Sara as she realized that Chantal was still in a great deal of pain and could not run. Sara placed a hand on Gilberto's arms and nodded towards Chantal. Gilberto stared at her and nodded. He picked up Chantal and began carrying her. Sara followed, her feet ignoring the pain of the cold, hard ground, matching his quick pace as he scurried towards some trees just off the main road. They stopped and Gilberto placed Chantal on the ground. Cold and afraid, needing his touch to reassure her, Sara leaned into him as he caught his breath.

Compared to the garden, abundant with many large plants to hide behind, the road was a far more frightening place to walk. It was so open. Sara followed Gilberto, slipping into the shadows he slipped into, hiding behind trees and then buildings as men rode past them, kicking up dust.

"They're likely still searching for who else may have been involved in the uprising," Gilberto whispered.

She nodded, watching another rider pass. Somehow they'd managed to stay concealed in the shadows.

*****

It took some time, but they managed to make it to Vasquez's safely. Letting himself in, Gilberto slowly opened the shop door and led the girls inside. "Vasquez," he whispered loudly, standing just inside the door.

Vasquez entered the main shop in sleeping attire, wiping a hand over his brow. "Gilberto, you made it."

"Yes."

He watched as Vasquez took in the two girls and smiled. Vasquez approached Sara and held out a hand. "You must be Sara."

Sara nodded, blushing when Vasquez kissed the back of her hand and Vasquez turned to him. "She is every bit as beautiful as you've spoken."

Sara's eyes found his and he stared at them, offering a slight smile. He continued to gaze at Sara until Vasquez's voice broke him of his thoughts. "And who is this?"

"Chantal."

Vasquez looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

"She's the child Malik took a couple of years ago…from the Gaul."

Vasquez nodded. "Rosita?"

Gilberto dropped his head. "Vasquez…" He paused, guilt and grief causing him to choke on his words. Sara's hand found his and after a gentle squeeze, Gilberto looked up at Vasquez. Vasquez looked very pale.

"She would not come."

Gilberto shook his head. "No, Vasquez. She wouldn't, but also couldn't. He stepped towards the aging man and placed his free hand on Vasquez's shoulder. "She's dead."

Vasquez dropped right in front of Gilberto, clinging to his heart. Gilberto fell to his knees, grasping Vasquez's other hand and pulling Vasquez's head to his lap. He placed his other hand over Vasquez's forehead. "I am so sorry." He closed his eyes. "Malik caught us trying to escape and he was about to kill us when Rosita appeared and surprised him. She sprung out from behind the doorway and stabbed him in the neck. Realizing what she'd done paralyzed us all. We weren't prepared for Malik to commit one last terrible act. Just before he died, he used his remaining strength to lift his blade and slice right through her stomach. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Sara was beside him and they lifted Vasquez to his feet, helping him to a chair. Gilberto kneeled before Vasquez, clasping one hand in his, bowing his head in contrition. "It was my fault. I will not ask for your forgiveness, but do know that I am so very sorry. My heart is filled with sorrow and with remorse."

He remained kneeling for some time before he felt Vasquez's hand on his head, smoothing over his unkempt hair. Gilberto's face dropped to Vasquez's lap. "She died for us. I could never repay her."

It was silent. Gilberto lifted his head to see Vasquez staring across the room. He glanced over his shoulder to see Sara looking on with compassion and tenderness. A few tears rolled down her face as she stood looking unsure of what to do. Gilberto moved his gaze back to Vasquez. Vasquez's frail hand landed on his arm. "You are not to blame. Only Malik…"

Vasquez's words stopped as he sputtered. Gilberto dropped his head again. "I should have kept her safe."

"For years, I know you did."

Gilberto gazed at the old man. Vasquez was not long for this life. His voice, wistful for some time now, had taken on a new measure of longing. There was sorrow and pain, but no defeat in it, yet Gilberto knew that Vasquez was in a sense, defeated. There was nothing left to live for. The hope that could come of Malik's death was overshadowed by the tragedy of Rosita's. The frail man would not last the year. He would weaken and fade. He had lost everything and was overcome by grief and yet, here he was, offering comfort, understanding and forgiveness. All Gilberto could do was make sure Vasquez was comfortable and he could only do it for one night. Sara was now beside him, a hand on his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. The little gesture soothed him to no end. Gilberto turned his gaze to her, staring at her and feeling so overwhelmed by the gaze she offered in return. Looking away, he turned back to Vasquez. "I'm sorry Vasquez. If there is anything I can do…"

He was answered by the quiet. The silence dragged on and then, Vasquez's face lifted to his. "Live the life Rosita died for. She died for that look, that love that just passed between you. Love this girl, Gilberto, this girl who is so worthy of you."

Gilberto nodded. He loved Sara with every grain of his being and he would spend the rest of his days conveying that to her. He would never forget the sacrifice both Vasquez and Rosita made to ensure it was possible. He closed his eyes, leaning slightly into Sara's side. "Vasquez, I…"

There was a knock on the door. Gilberto rose quickly. Glancing at Vasquez, he only had a second to make a very tough decision. He did not want to leave the grieving man, but they were all in danger. "Behind the door," Vasquez stated and Gilberto did not waste another second. He grasped Sara and Chantal by the arm and pulled them behind the main door. Sara and Chantal huddled in the small space while he stood in outside of them, ready to step out from behind the door should Vasquez need him.

Gilberto watched as Vasquez stood, weakly walking towards the door, taking very slow steps. Vasquez turned the door handle and stepped back. Gilberto gasped when Hassan entered, carrying Rosita's body.

He stood, frozen behind the door, watching Hassan step inside and lay down Rosita's body. The questions raced through Gilberto's mind. Hassan knew that Vasquez was Rosita's father?

Gilberto continued to stare. Vasquez had fallen to the floor and was now weeping over Rosita's lifeless frame. Hassan was kneeling beside him, a hand on Vasquez's back, head lowered in respect. Gilberto stepped out from behind the door. "Hassan…"

Hassan lifted his head and stood. A hand landed on Gilberto's arm as Hassan pulled Gilberto off to the side. "Nijad has taken charge. I have told him of Rosita's and Malik's death. Tonight you are safe, but this morning…Nijad will be taking stock of the household and when he finds you missing…"

Gilberto nodded. There wasn't time to get away before morning, but they'd have to leave as soon as night fell again or they'd be placing Vasquez in great danger. "We'll leave at nightfall."

Hassan nodded, his gaze flickering to Vasquez and Rosita. Gilberto could not escape the sorrow in his eyes. He turned his head to Vasquez, observing the man who'd been a second father. Vasquez's anguish was so evident, it pained him to look. He would have stayed and taken care of the man to the end of his days if he could, but such a thought was dangerous. It would place Vasquez in harms way…it would place Sara in harms way.

He watched as Hassan returned to kneel by Vasquez's side, head tilted down again, chin to chest. Somehow he knew Vasquez would be looked after. Chantal was another matter. He'd gotten her out of the house, but now what?

He turned and stared at Sara and Chantal. He nodded at them and they slowly crept from behind the door. Sara walked straight to him, leaning into him. Chantal inched towards Rosita's body, her eyes hesitant. She lowered herself to the floor and clasped Rosita's hand, weeping. The sight caused both Vasquez and Hassan to look up, their eyes soft. Hassan placed an arm around the child and Chantal threw herself into the embrace, weeping soundly.

Hassan's hand came out to run over Chantal's hair, soothing the poor girl. Gilberto watched as Hassan looked up at him, mouthing silently, "What are you going to do with the girl?"

Gilberto shrugged. He could take her along with Sara, but the trek would be long and he had no idea where they would end up. He'd thought of Damascus, of Hassan's home, where Muslims, Jews and Christians were carving out a thriving metropolis, where the scholars held high ranking and Greek, Roman and Sasanian Persian influence permeated the city. Despite the irony of escaping the Moors to end up in the heart of the Muslim world, it was where he wanted to be and to raise a child, a place that cradled the height of civilization. It was no place for Chantal though, not with him and an expecting Sara. She would be forgotten about, lost in the mix, in a very foreign land with a very foreign tongue. He would marry Sara, but Chantal was not family, so he could not protect her the way she required. He could not set her free in any land because she would be a desirable slave for any society. Taking her to her home, to her family in the Gaul would be the best for her, but it would be a treacherous, possibly perilous passage and in the wrong direction from where he wanted to take Sara. Gilberto stared at Hassan. He was filled with so much uncertainty, he could only shrug again.

Hassan released the weeping child and stood. Chantal edged towards Vasquez, wrapping her small arms around the old man. Hassan pulled Gilberto away from Sara. "She should return home. Does she know where that is? Where in the Gaul?"

"I'm sure she does. Hassan…"

"I'll take her. You should not endanger yourself or Sara by undertaking the trip. At least I'll be able to move freely along the route."

Gilberto stared at Hassan. "You've risked too much, Hassan."

Hassan glanced at Vasquez and Chantal and shook his head. "No, Gilberto, not enough." He paused momentarily. "I'll take her to her home and return here. For now, I must go. I'll be back to see you off tonight."

"Thank you." The words came out soft but held the sincerest of gratitude. Hassan was doing all that Gilberto should, taking Chantal home, taking care of Vasquez…

"It would be best to hide now, before dawn arrives."

Gilberto nodded. He moved to Chantal and lifted her away from the body. He repositioned her and then clasped Sara's hand, leading her to the cart. He placed Chantal in the cart and helped Sara climb in behind her. He climbed beneath the wooden seats, pressed tightly to the other girls. Hassan handed him in some food and then proceeded to cover them up. It would be an uncomfortable day, but it would be well worth it to see freedom on the other side. Besides, they were all exhausted. Perhaps they'd be able to sleep most of the daylight hours away.

*****

He'd slept on and off throughout the day. Most of the hours had been spent staring into Sara's eyes, his fingers playing with her hair and brushing his thumb along her eyebrows and over her temple. He'd soothed her and Chantal whenever they heard noises nearby, waiting nervously for the sounds to pass and secretly fearing they'd be caught. Thankfully, they had remained undisturbed.

When darkness fell, Gilberto heard the muffled sounds of things being moved around the cart. They were uncovered and Gilberto found himself looking up at Hassan. Hassan helped him from the cart. Stiff and sore, he stretched out before helping Sara and Chantal from the cart.

The goodbyes were quick. Though he wanted to linger in Vasquez's embrace, he knew that they had little time to spare. He asked Chantal to be brave, thanked Hassan again and had no words for Vasquez, only the expression of one who is truly sorrowful and one who holds the greatest gratitude and love. Glancing one last time at Vasquez, and then another and another, he tore his gaze away and guided Sara away, his hand firmly clasped in hers.

Using buildings as their shelter, he led Sara to the outskirts of town. Just outside the town, a group of men on horseback passed, the riders either still looking for men involved in the uprising, or looking for them. Gilberto dropped to his knees behind a bush, pulling Sara down with him. He wrapped her tight in his arms, tucking her head down, his forehead on her shoulder, his breath soft on her neck. They remained in that embrace until no sound nor sight remained of the riders and then, holding her to him and running his arms down her chilled back, he waited a few moments longer. Lifting his head, he peeked up at the open road before them, at their passage to freedom and he stood, still holding her to him. It was time to keep moving. They had a long journey…


	41. Interlude: The American, III

**A/N: **A big thank you again to everybody who has taken the time to read this and an even bigger thank you to those of you who've taken the time to send a review, or several. I feel so inadequate at showing my gratitude, so I'll leave it by telling you that I love hearing what you think. Thank you.

**Spoilers:** _Grave Danger, Still Life, _& _Way to Go_

**Interlude: The American**

_**Las Vegas, 2006**_

His mother had begun going deaf shortly after his father died. As a child, he wondered if losing her hearing was a way for his mother to withdraw from the world. He wondered if the silences that filled the space of his father's corny jokes or quiet recitations were easier when they weren't so recognizable, when all sound was missing and not just the sound of him. Was it easier not to hear anything than it was not to hear him? If his mother couldn't distinguish his absence by sound, was it a way to pretend he was still around, to pretend he wasn't gone? Was losing her hearing a way to cope with his death? When she closed her eyes and dreamed, was that the only time she let sound into her life, when the sounds of him were so vivid in her mind, just as fresh in her memory as all of the others?

Young Gilbert, aching for his father and struggling to understand what was happening to his mother, wanted to discover that world his mother was living. He wanted to know if that world was any easier to deal with than the world he was in. In an attempt to understand, he tried to turn off his own hearing. He ignored noise, tried to blank it out. He buried his head beneath his pillow, attempting to stifle sounds. He plugged his ears and held his head under water, hoping to muffle the outside world, to filter it, to discover what it was like devoid of sound. It never worked. Sound always got through. He could not withdraw the way his mother had, so he was left in his own world, between silence and sound, the ghost of a father and a mother who danced with that ghost to music only heard by her, a mother that could imagine the ghost to be real.

What young Gilbert did not know was that his mother had already been losing her hearing. Before his father's sudden death, sound had already begun to elude her, but she and his father had decided to keep it quiet. It would take a few more years before Gilbert understood the biology of what had occurred. At nine, all he saw was his mother buying gift after gift for his phantom father, discreetly unwrapping those gifts herself and storing them away, placing them in places where, in normal circumstances, they would see everyday use. All Gilbert saw was his mother suffering a grief so intense it caused her to withdraw into a silent world. Later, he would discover that the two events were not related, but it did not diminish what he'd witnessed as a young boy. Though it hadn't been her choice to withdraw into a world without sound, it had been her choice to withdraw in other ways. The memory of his mother's grief would remain with him. Though he did not understand love, he understood the pain of what love, true love, could do. He understood the pain of having to watch someone grieve over the loss of such a love and he understood how much more infinitely painful it would be to be the one dealing with such a loss. At nine he decided he could never let himself feel that pain, could never let that one person whose loss had that ability to shatter him, into his life. At nine, he chose not to love.

Of course, he had loved, and not the love that he allowed himself, love for his mother, his family, his friends, even a girlfriend once. No, he'd also loved the way his mother had, wholly and completely. He'd been consumed by it, was still completely consumed by it. It wasn't as though he could stop it. He'd met the one person who could possess him, mind, body and soul. He'd denied her, denied himself, and yet even his denial was not strong enough. He'd fallen hopelessly, helplessly, painfully in love, despite his resolve. And still he tried to hold firm, knowing she was the one person who could truly hurt him. He'd teetered between needing to keep her close and fearfully running away. Finally, upon discovering that she was already in possession of him and losing her in any way would be infinitely more painful than anything he'd ever felt before, he took the chance he'd promised to deny himself. And the year had been wonderful…

So, as he stared at her form kneeled before the bed and they spoke of dying and of saying goodbye, he felt his heart skip a painful beat. Her voice and her eyes promised him forever, but he knew how precarious forever could be. In their jobs, they saw it often. Brass's shooting and emergency surgery had driven it home. The event had shaken Grissom and led to a kind of reflection. The words were for him, his own little musings, but he'd spoke them aloud, hoping she would understand. He spoke of having the time to do the things he wanted to do, the time to say goodbye to those he loved, but he the things he wanted to do weren't important. The goodbye was. In his reflections, he only thought of one person he really wanted to have the time to say goodbye to. He only thought of Sara.

He thought of how he needed that extra time to figure out a way to tell her what he felt, how he felt. Maybe only in discovering one's own mortality was so close at hand could a person discover the answer to that burning question about the meaning of life, and only then could the words and the thoughts come out. Only then could a person's feelings be clear enough to himself for that person to able to express them. Perhaps death would make it easier. It would certainly make it more urgent, though not more important. It was always important. Maybe it was just that he didn't want to leave behind any doubts. He wanted her to know, always, that she was his greatest desire, comfort, confident, lover and friend. He wanted her to know that he'd never been in love before her, that she was his only and would remain so. And yes, maybe he did need the time to figure out how to say it.

He was so utterly useless at expressing himself…no, not himself, his emotions. Even as she kneeled before him and he stared at her with burning need, he could not find a way to truly express himself. He was in love with her, but telling her that seemed so inadequate and he would probably fumble through the telling of it anyway. He held out his hand, a small gesture, but when Sara took it, his soft smile grew. She gave herself so selflessly and she understood, only after years albeit, when he was struck mute.

Lying down on his back, he tugged on her hand and pulled her to rest on top of him. Releasing her hand, he moved his fingers to the sash of her robe, slowly untying it. Little by little, he slid the robe from her shoulders, bringing it down her arms, leisurely brushing his hands over her skin as he edged the robe off those delicate arms. His hands moved back up to her shoulders, lingering before gliding lightly over her arms again. He toyed with her damp hair and brushed his thumb over her cheek, staring into her eyes. His breath caught, as it had a thousand times in the year they'd been together. It amazed him how it never got old, how it was still just as overwhelming as it was the first time. He would be taken by the sight of her, the feel of her, forever. Even after little over a year, he still trembled when he touched her. What they had was so strong and yet so delicate, he could scarcely believe it was real.

Sara shivered beneath his touch and his breath caught once again. Her fingers quivered over his chest, in the space above the buttons of his shirt, brushing over the chest hair peeking out. Her lips landed softly on the dip of his throat, a brief, moist kiss. His breathing grew heavier and hers grew uneven. Slowly slipping his hands beneath her robe, his fingers slid to her hips and rested.

He stared at her, at the shy expression donning her face, at her slender, graceful body, so thankful she wasn't ready to say goodbye. He wasn't ready either, would never be ready. It was curious, but in the years before he had allowed himself to be with her, he imagined losing her, so many times and in so many ways. Since they began whatever this thing between them is, he stopped imagining. He refused to imagine, think about or even consider it. It wasn't like they were immune to it, no, just the opposite. They'd been in dangerous situations in their jobs many times before they came together. They'd been in dangerous situations since. It was only just after they'd finally managed to come together, that they'd had to witness Nick in a dangerous, life threatening scenario. He hadn't thought of losing Sara then, certainly not during, when all of his energy and her energy and the team's energy was directed at rescuing Nick, and not even after, when it was over and they had time to reflect. The truth was, he wouldn't think of her in that situation. It would have paralyzed him.

Even now, in his musings, he never once allowed himself to think about what it would be like to be the one left behind after the goodbye. He'd only though of how he'd like to die. In all of his imaginings, Sara was with him, giving him the time to say goodbye to her. Gazing at her and thinking of her words, her attempt at making things a little lighter, a little more seductive too, perhaps, opened up a new, unwanted thought. What if she were to go first?

He didn't want to think about it, but the thoughts had already seeped in. He thought of his mother's grief and how he once believed her deafness to be a way to cope with his father's death. A part of him, the part that wouldn't bury himself in work but would rather lie on his bed and cease to exist, wouldn't want to hear anything if he couldn't hear her. What would the world sound like without Sara, without the lilt of her voice, the sound her breaths made when they hitched, her soft sighs and quiet murmurings of his name in sleep? He didn't want to know. The absence of her sounds, her voice, would cause a pain so acute, he could feel it even now, when the thoughts were still only thoughts.

He would remember her words, always, but would he forget her voice? Would he forget how those words sounded when they passed her lips? And what of the rest of her? He would remember that she was brilliant, but would he remember her brilliance itself? The pictures he had of her and the pictures in his mind would preserve her beauty, but would all the subtle things get lost? Would he forget her lines, her looks, her features, the softness of her skin, her smile, coy at times and absolutely radiant at others, the way her eyes shined when she looked at him and all those other little things about her he'd tried burning into memory? He'd mapped her body over many nights. He'd paid attention to every detail, memorized every little thing about her. Every piece of her, every curve, every line was significant. He knew her body so well, he could feel the subtlest of changes and he relished in them, he relished in being witness to them. He 'd gone over that map so many times, with fingers and with lips, slowly, adjusting to those little changes and perfecting that map, that memory. If he were to lose her, would that memory fade over time? Even people with the best of memories could lose the ones most important.

Sara's fingers traced over his eyebrows. "What is it?" she asked softly.

It took a moment for him to break from his dark thoughts. He smiled up at her, his hands drifting to the curve of her back. He slid his hands up and back down again, pulling gently on her back to bring her closer, although that was impossible. She was already lying directly on top of him, her weight resting fully on his. Her fingers moved back to his buttons, playing over them gently, gracefully. He gazed at her. It would be a great time to tell her he loved her, but the moment passed again. He could not make out the words. Instead, he shook his head, rolling her to his side. Her robe fell from her frame like a blanket, leaving her beautifully nude before him. He pulled her in tight and kissed her shoulder blade, stalling until he could find some words.

Later, when the words still would not come, he removed his own clothes and shifted above her, kissing her. Eyes locked to hers, finding that connection he'd only ever share with her, he mapped out her body once more. Fingers and lips lingered and danced slowly, lightly, softly over her skin. He listened to her whimpers and moans, her hitched breaths and he committed the sounds to memory once again, knowing he needed to remember them for as long as he could. He slowly made love to her, fingers brushing away the hairs that had fallen to her eyes, so that he could maintain that eye contact, that connection. He held her when they finished, staring at her and placing soft, short kisses on her skin, longing to one day find the words. He wished the words would come before his time, or her time, on earth was up. He prayed his death would give him the opportunity to really convey how he felt about her so that she would always know. And, if she had to go first, he hoped he'd at least have the time to say goodbye.


	42. The Italian, I

**The Nine Lives of Grissom and Sara: The Fourth Life**

**The Italian, I**

_Of Gilberto and Sara once more…_

_**Florence, 1473**_

_The height of the early Italian Renaissance and the Golden Age of the Republic of Florence under the rule of Lorenzo de' Medici, the Renaissance's greatest patron of the Arts._

He stood alone, staring down at the coffin before him. Others had begun to filter away, slowly, one by one or two by two, directing solemn glances at him as they left him standing before his wife, taken from him, so young, in the strangest of accidents. Gilberto failed to notice most of the looks cast his way. He was too busy staring blankly down at the coffin that now housed his wife. Idly, he wondered if he was still in shock. Should he not feel sad or numb, or something right about now? There was sadness, and he did feel it, but he did not feel the sadness he believed was expected of him. Staring down at the stone coffin, he tried to make sense of his emotions, tried to summon the grief. He turned away, a slight pang of guilt.

Another look was cast his way and this time he did notice. He felt it every time her eyes were on him. He closed his eyes, letting the feel of those eyes on him wash over him, comfort him and yet fill him with a twinge guilt. Looking up, he met her eyes, that deep stare, forcing a soft smile at her sympathetic gaze. He could not look away, filled with that inescapable longing and that painful pang of shame and guilt. Here he was, standing beside his wife's final resting place, mourning for her, while deep in his heart, he was longing for another woman.

He had loved his wife. She had been good and honorable, virtuous and faithful, but it had been a love he'd grown into. From the time of his betrothal to her, to their wedding and finally, to her death, he had grown to love her, as a wife and companion. She had been a good companion, comforting and encouraging and he would miss her terribly. Clare had been a beautiful woman and a beautiful person, intelligent, kind and honest. He had tried to be a faithful and honorable husband to her, but often felt he had fallen short, for he had always loved another with a deep, spiritual passion. From the time they were children, he had loved her and yearned for her and wished that it had been she to whom his parents had betrothed him. She had been the only one who could arise that deep, unrestrained and intense passion within him, and that blinding, tormented feeling of guilt that would follow. Even at his wife's funeral, he was not free from his feelings for her.

His thoughts had drifted back and forth between Clare and Sara all day. Clare was the one chosen for him, but Sara was the one his heart had chosen. Her soft looks and tender expressions throughout the day had offered him comfort. He had never been able to turn away from her gaze, from passing her on the street when she was with a group of friends, and often, his wife, to now. He was drawn to her eyes, to the delicacy of her features and to the gentle gaze she always seemed to hold for him. It was so entirely anguishing to be standing beside his wife's grave, trying to honor the memory of his wife, and to not be able to break his gaze from her.

His cousin, Vittorio, placed a hand on her back. Gilberto watched, painfully, as Sara looked up at her husband, smiling softly. How had it happened that his love, his pure, absolute love had been chosen for his cousin? He had to look away, longing followed by guilt and remorse flooding him. He shed a tear over the marble tomb of his wife before glancing back to Sara, seeing her being led away, Vittorio's hand still placed lightly on her back. Her face turned back to his, once again, her gaze soft and sympathetic, and perhaps, a little reluctant as well. As her face away, he thought he caught a brief glimpse of pain and wondered, perhaps, if she was as hesitant to leave as he was to watch her go, if she could possibly feel a fraction of the love for him as he felt for her. He looked away sharply, slamming his eyes shut and whispering "I'm sorry," to the stone coffin and marble tomb. Perhaps later, he would weep for the loss of his wife. In that moment, though, dropping to his knees in front of the tomb, he only wept with guilt.


	43. The Italian, II

**The Italian, II**

It was curious how one got used to another's presence. Though their days had passed so often without the company of each other, he'd grown so used to Clare being there that the house seemed so large and empty without her. In ten years of marriage, Clare had imprinted herself on the place so soundly, it was hard to imagine she wasn't still around, reading somewhere and offering him privacy. With the help, the house still moved with life, though more quiet and subdued. With all the life around him, it was far too easy to forget Clare was gone. When he remembered, he was only struck with more pangs of guilt.

Gilberto decided to let go of a few of the hands around the house, finding the thought of them a little extravagant, especially for just one person. Not able to bear the thought of parting with Christina, his long held housekeeper, he kept her on. She ran the house while he did his best to make her job easier, cleaning up after himself and cooking the meals. He tended to all of the plants around the house, which though plentiful, was not an added burden. A bit of a green thumb and interested in the natural sciences, the plants had been a bit of a pet project for him. He rarely saw Christina, but every once in awhile, when the silence became too much, he shared a meal with her.

Mostly he kept to the library, as he did before Clare's death. The library, with its plants lining the windows, its comfortable lounge chairs and its vast number of books, he felt at home. It was only in the library where he could feel he was a part of life, immersing himself in Plato, Aristotle and Cicero, Homer and Avicenna. The room was the reason he gave himself for holding onto the house, though he could not fool himself; the house was also in close proximity to Sara. A new, smaller home would be further away and he could not bear the thought. If he couldn't have her, he wanted to be near her, to feel her presence, to feel the comfort of having her near. Sara was his reason for being, his inspiration. His love for her was what made his life worthwhile. Though he told himself that it was unrequited, it did not matter. To love her was enough.

When he wasn't reading or writing in his spare time, he was torturing himself by wandering the large house, always deep in thought and often convincing himself that to stay was the right decision. Each night, Gilberto passed Clare's bed chamber and paused in the doorway, looking in at the made-up bed. He remembered two lives, separate but together, living in coexistence, but never really entwining. When the lives had crossed paths, exchanged greetings or a soft kiss on the cheek perhaps, the comfort of having such an understanding companion helped to ease the pain of not having the woman he loved. Now, there was no such comfort…only guilt.

Each night, he lay on his bed and closed his eyes, thinking about the loss of his companion. The thoughts always turned to Sara though, as he dreamed of her, just holding her at first, or whispering tender sweet-nothings into her ear. Later, when his mind drifted off further, he would imagine her in that bed with him, lying beneath him while he brushed light kisses across her soft, beautiful skin. The dream would never get too far before his eyes would dart open and he would be left troubled with guilt, staring at the ceiling, his heart racing. Ashamed, he refused to touch himself, to relieve himself and instead continued to stare at the ceiling above him, reciting Hail Mary's, unable to fall back asleep.

He had never dreamed of his wife that way, had never dreamed of any woman besides Sara that way. When they first wed, he had shakily consummated his marriage to Clare, awkwardly touching himself to build up his arousal. His eyes had been closed the entire time as he focused on both his task and on keeping Sara from his thoughts. Clare had been young and beautiful, shy, but reassuring and oh, so innocent. She had been a desirable young woman and an amazing one at that, but that had not been enough to remove Sara from his mind or supplant Clare for Sara in his heart. He could not fall into Clare, could not lose himself in her the way he did with one glance at Sara.

After their first time, he had felt guilty that his fumbling caused Clare more pain than necessary, and though he'd gotten a release from the arousal he'd built up, he had been left feeling only empty and sad. They'd tried several other times, but the experiences had left him just as sad. He'd known he had done nothing to give Clare any pleasure, and he had felt guilty for even touching her, as though he had been betraying Sara and betraying his own heart. When only a few of the couplings resulted in pregnancy and none in children, Gilberto had withdrawn, knowing he could not continue to bed his own wife. He had been nothing but reassurances with Clare, begging her to believe that it wasn't her fault, though deep down he'd known she was, in truth, just as relieved as he. He felt guilty that although she deserved to be loved, she would never experience what one classified as making love. Knowing he would never experience it either eased a little of the guilt. At least he would be paying for his sins.

After their last coupling, he hadn't touched Clare intimately again. It had been years. Sadly, she had died without knowing what it was to have a man worship her, without knowing that sex could be pleasurable and wonderful rather than awkward and painful. Though he hadn't experienced it himself, his dreams had left him knowing how amazing it could be. They had left him wanting. He doubted that Clare, however, had ever really experienced true desire. She had gone years without being touched or looked at in that way that could cause butterflies to flutter in one's stomach. Since their last coupling, Gilberto had permitted himself only chaste touches and comforting embraces, ones that would leave him faithful to both women and wouldn't leave him lying in tormented guilt and indescribable sadness. Indeed, his dreams left him with enough of those feelings, sadness at not having Sara and guilt over his mind's betrayal of Clare.

The mornings were little better. He walked, daily, to the University, not canceling a single class apart from the day of the funeral. His students looked at him differently, though, than they had before his wife's death, as though they only saw for the first time that he was missing something. He knew what it was. They had all read his sonnets, his protestations of love, and thought he had lost that love with the passing of his wife. The young scholars seemed less interested in the Classics and Classical languages than to see if he would write a new sonnet, one about pain and about loss. He did not tell his students that he could write volumes about it, could have written volumes long before Clare's death, but did not, because penning it would have left him with crippled with guilt. He did not tell them that the inspiration for all his sonnets was and had always been another man's wife, his cousin's wife. He said nothing and his students kept up their long silences, making class so much more difficult to get through. He became quieter, unable to respond to their silences, for sharing his truths would be unthinkable and he did not know what else they wanted from him. He drew them back to the Classics and would not allow the scholars to lead the discussion into other directions as they would previously. And somehow, his quiet, his refusal to go off topic, made things worse. In his students' minds, it seemed to confirm their suspicions: he was a man who had suffered a great loss.

The days were tiring. He began to feel as though he was merely existing. Life around him was thriving. Florence and the Florentine spirit were thriving. There was so much movement, so much life and prosperity and political thought, so much artistic expression. Scholars and artists flocked to the city. Libraries were created and housed books in four languages. Public buildings and monuments and statues were erected. Groups of people spoke gaily in the city's courtyards. None of it could hold his attention, none that is until he saw her.

A couple of months after Clare's death, when life became a little easier again and his students weren't staring at him with that uncomfortable mix of hesitation and anticipation as often, he passed by Sara on the street. She was clothed in emerald green and smiling softly at him as he passed. He caught sight of her and looked away quickly. She was so utterly beautiful, so breathtaking, it hurt to look upon her. He could not gaze at her anymore, as though holding her eyes dishonored the memory of his wife, as though he was not worthy of casting even a glance her way. Sara's hand landed softly on his arm, burning him and tormenting him. Slowly he lifted his eyes to hers and offered a hesitant smile. He glanced down at the hand still resting on his arm and waited for her to speak.

"How are you?" Her voice was soft and sincere and it pained his heart.

He continued to stare at her hand. "Well…I am well."

"Good…good."

He looked down the street, needing to leave. Her touch was agony. He yearned for her so much so that it was physically painful to be in her presence when this simple, innocent touch would be all that would ever be permitted between them.

Sara's hand dropped from his arm. "You haven't been by in awhile."

"No…no, I've been…"

"Yes, I'm sure." He glanced up to see Sara nodding. Her hand lifted again and he watched as it hung in the air before falling back to her side. She seemed to hesitate. "I…we've missed you."

He nodded.

"Vittorio, he's been worried…"

Gilberto looked away.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

He forced his gaze back to Sara. "No, it's…there's nothing to worry about."

"Oh, well, good…"

"I should…" He nodded down the street.

"Oh, yes, of course."

He turned away, feeling the lingering gaze of Sara upon him. With quick steps, he strode home, needing to be away from her as quickly as possible.

*****

Days after meeting Sara in the street, Vittorio sent someone to ask him to dinner. He wanted desperately to refuse, but knew that Vittorio would not let off so easily. With great reluctance, he accepted.

Sara greeted him at the door. Wearing a crimson gown, she was absolutely stunning. His eyes skimmed over her and he swallowed, completely taken by her. Feeling guilty for his perusal he lifted his eyes to her face, noticing for the first time, how drawn she looked. Gilberto wondered if she had looked just as fatigued in the street, when he hadn't allowed himself to really look at her. He felt more guilt for possibly not noticing she'd been ill earlier. Without thought, he abscently reached for her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over the crook of her elbow. Lost in the softness of her skin, he relished how she stilled beneath his touch. He looked at her, his eyes full of softness. "How are you? Are you well?"

She nodded, though unconvincingly. Stepping closer, Gilberto took another moment to study her pale, worn face. Even then, she was so utterly beautiful.

His desire for her was playing foul with his senses for he may have imagined it, but he thought he saw Sara's eyes flicker open and closed, and her mouth let out a small sigh before she stepped back quickly. He may also have dreamed it, but he was sure he heard her voice crack slightly when she spoke. "Come in. Vittorio is in the drawing room."

Gilberto dropped her arm and followed her, taking a seat near Vittorio. Vittorio's face lit with a wide smile. "Cousin, how good of you to join us."

"I thank you for the invitation." His eyes traveled up to the large portrait Vittorio had painted of Sara. She looked exquisite in the portrait. Vittorio had captured her beauty almost to perfection. Gilberto debated whether it was Vittorio's talent or Sara's beauty that made the portrait so striking, though his heart had already decided. Vittorio certainly had the perfect model. Sara was a work of art.

"You are always welcome here, Gilberto, you know that."

Gilberto's eyes continued to drift across the room, taking in the magnificent architecture and the elegant furniture. The room was splendid and grand, but it was also warm. He could feel Sara's presence, the presence of life and of love. It was very much a home. He sighed wistfully before letting a soft, sincere smile form upon his face. "Yes, and I appreciate it."

Vittorio smiled and they continued to make small talk until one of the servants informed them that dinner was ready. He followed Vittorio through the massive house to the dining hall. The house was so grand and Vittorio so friendly and easy going, talented and ambitious, Gilberto knew that the life Vittorio gave Sara was so much better than he could ever offer. Walking down to the far end of the table, Gilberto found himself seated between Vittorio, at the head, and Sara.

Throughout the meal, Gilberto paused in his eating to glance at Sara. She seemed to lack appetite. Her delicate fingers played with her fork, pushing the food around her plate. He shot her questioning glances, but she only smiled softly in return, shrugging when his eyes continued to explore hers. Trying to focus on anything but her, he began a discussion on philosophy, common to their usual dinner conversations, but seemingly very out of place that night. Though Gilberto began the discussion, he could not stop his mind from wandering off and his eyes from flickering back to Sara.

The meal seemed to draw out time. Sitting between Sara and her husband and trying to engage in some sort of conversation, while feeling so concerned and enamored with Sara all at once, pushed his comfort to the limit. Finally, Vittorio finished his meal and stood. "Cousin, I have news." Gilberto swallowed, but Vittorio's easy smile helped to ease him. "I have asked you here to celebrate. de' Medici has commissioned several paintings by me."

Gilberto's eyes widened and he beamed, happily, for his cousin. "Vittorio, that is wonderful news."

"Yes, could you imagine, Vittorio Rosetti enjoying the patronage of Lorenzo the Magnificent?"

"When do you begin?"

"Next week. He has allowed me a few days to prepare."

Gilberto smiled again, his happiness for his cousin, wholehearted. The evening seemed lighter afterwards, though he could not prevent the worry from entering his mind whenever he glanced towards Sara.

When the evening wound down, he bid Sara a quiet good night, watching her with longing as she moved gracefully away and left him with Vittorio. He turned to Vittorio, eyes glancing back to Sara. "Is she not well?" he asked, softly.

Vittorio's eyes followed his and the smile Vittorio had worn all night faded. "No, she has been quite ill lately."

"Do you know…?"

"An excess of black bile says our physician."

Gilberto stopped breathing. "Carcinoma?" he whispered and Vittorio nodded solemnly.

It was silent for a moment and then another. His heart had stopped. He couldn't breathe. Gilberto closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"Gilberto."

The word, his name, was spoken softly, almost a question, but not quite. He looked up in the direction of the voice and met Vittorio's serious gaze. He waited.

"I wondered if you would not come here and keep Sara company every day. She enjoys your company so and…"

He swallowed. "What about you?"

"I'll be at the palace. I know this commission with de' Medici is terrible timing, but you understand, I have to take it. I have the physician to pay for now, and these physicians are so very expensive these days…"

Gilberto practically cried out his response. "I can help. I'll give you whatever you need. If you need money, I've let go a number of my staff so I am without that expense. I have plenty of money to spare."

Vittorio shook his head. "I can not accept your money."

"Please," he whispered.

"No, Gilberto. It is my duty to pay for her care. Please, I only ask you keep her company."

"She's your wife. She'll need you."

"I told de' Medici of my circumstances and he has allowed me to remain in my home at night. I'll be with her at night. I just need someone to watch her by day, keep her spirits up. I can not turn down this offer, you know that. It's de' Medici."

Gilberto nodded slowly.

"Her nurse will be around to help, and the physician will be stopping by. Please, Gilberto, could you keep her company? It is your company she wants, even if she will not say it. I know she'd want you to be the one there with her if I cannot be."

Gilberto nodded again. "Then, of course. I'll do whatever I can for her."

"You can come by after you teach in the mornings and perhaps stay a few hours?"

"I can cancel my classes."

"No, don't. Please, don't. Sara would not want that. I do not want that. Please cousin, do not sacrifice for us."

He could not tell his cousin that it would not be a sacrifice. He wanted to spend every hour of every day with her. He only nodded. "I'll be by every day, all day after my class, until you come home."

Vittorio smiled again, clasping a hand on him shoulder. "Thank you."

Gilberto lifted a hand and shook his head. He bid a quick goodbye and walked home slowly. Everything he should have felt at his wife's funeral two months before, he now felt. He was absolutely numb. He'd just lost his wife. He could not lose Sara as well. He could never handle losing Sara, even if she had never been his to lose. He was at his door before he realized it, having walked blindly unaware to his step, the thoughts of Sara's illness completely overwhelming him. He choked on the air around him. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Once he stepped inside his house, he collapsed, gasping for breath, screaming silent cries of agony.


	44. The Italian, III

**The Italian, III**

Gilberto shifted his weight between his two feet as he waited for somebody to answer the door. His head was down, watching the transfer of weight between each foot when the door opened and he found himself looking at Isabella, one of the young maids. He smiled warmly at Isabella as she let him pass. "Where is Sara?"

"She is in the library."

He stood in the foyer and nodded towards the corridor. "Is it alright?"

"She is up and reading if that's what you are asking. You will not disturb her. Rosetti has asked me to instruct you to head right on in."

"Very well." He shifted on his feet again. It felt strange to be in the house when Sara was there without Vittorio and for a fleeting moment Gilberto wondered if he wasn't committing some great sin. He shook off the thoughts. Vittorio had asked him to watch over Sara and there was no place he'd rather be than by her side, offering her whatever he could.

Isabella stared at him, waiting for him to make a decision. He let out his breath and strode down the corridor, towards the library. Outside the library, he paused, slowly opening the door and peeking in.

Sara was sitting up in a chair, reading. In her hands, she held Dante's _Purgatorio_. Gilberto held his breath, watching her read from her chair, captivated by the sight of her and yearning for her once again. _Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife. _He looked down at his hand on the doorknob, ashamed by his thoughts once again.

"Gilberto."

Gilberto looked up to see Sara looking at him, a bright smile crossing her face. He returned her smile, though his was far less bright. "Hello."

"Hello. This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you by this time of day?"

"I was on my way home from class and I thought I would stop in."

"How nice. Vittorio is not here."

He was quiet. He turned his head away, only to glance back and find Sara staring at him. Her smile faded. "He sent you."

"No. No, he asked me if I wouldn't mind stopping in, but it was my choice to come."

Sara turned her face away from him. "You do not have to be here."

"I know." He paused, looking at her and then whispered quietly, "I want to be here."

Her face turned back to his. Her eyes were shining with tears. He stepped towards her. She was such a beautiful creature and he ached for her. "I do, Sara. I wanted to come."

"I don't want you to feel you are obliged."

He shook his head. "Never."

He was in front of her now. He wondered if he should address her illness, but he could not bear to bring it up. He wanted to keep things light, wanted her to forget that she was ill. He looked at her book again. It made him uncomfortable to watch her read it when he, in some peculiar way, felt he identified with its author. Still, he could not think of any other conversation piece at the moment, so he playfully tilted his head to glance at the title of the book, as though he hadn't already seen what she was reading. She looked up at him, an eyebrow cocked. "Yes?"

"_Purgatorio_?"

She stared at him and smirked. "I thought that the consensus amongst you scholars was that every literate Florentine should read _La Comedia_?"

"Every literate person, actually."

"Then, why are you looking at me that way? Do you not like _La Comedia_?"

Did he not like it? Of course he did. It was a work of art, inspired and epic. It was strange though, watching her read it when she was his Beatrice, his unrequited love. He wondered if she could see his thoughts, wondered if he was wearing his love for her out in the open, wondered if she realized what she was to him. A part of him wanted her to see, wanted her to make those connections. A part of him feared it. That part of him feared what she'd see if she discovered he was in purgatory himself, waiting for a time when he might reach paradise, when he might reach her. It was immensely frightening to consider that she may understand. He shook his head, trying not to reveal himself. "No, I am extremely fond of it. _La Comedia_ is brilliant."

"Hmmm, I thought so. And what of your teasing of me?"

"I have to entertain myself. You certainly are not able to do it if you're reading _Purgatorio._"

"You need entertaining, do you?"

"No, but it is your duty."

"Is it?"

He smiled. "Yes, as lady of the house, it is your responsibility to entertain your guests."

"Well, guest, choose a book and begin reading. At the very least, I want to finish this canto."

Gilberto walked to the shelves that lined the rows of books. He skimmed the titles and realized he already had every one of Vittorio's books in his possession. Vittorio's home may have been far grander, but of the two men, Gilberto had the superior library. He chose a favorite and turned back to Sara. Sara's delicate fingers closed her book and placed it on the table beside her. Her eyes drifted shut. He took a moment to watch her, seeing the fatigue so evident on her face, the paleness of her skin, and a thousand other little signs that she was not well.

He approached her chair slowly, pulling up an ottoman and sitting himself before her. Placing his book beside hers on the table, he took her hand, gazing at her as she opened her eyes. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand and instinctively, he slid closer. "Is it very bad?" he whispered.

Sara shrugged weakly. He watched her attempt to force a reassuring smile, falling short of the effort.

"How long have you known?"

"A month, perhaps."

Gilberto shifted closer, once again. Now on the edge of the ottoman, he lifted his other hand and enclosed her fist both his hands. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"We didn't want to cause you any more hurt. Clare had only just died…" He stiffened, but held firm when Sara tried to pull her hand away. Her eyes dropped from his. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up."

"No, don't be."

"It's just that we haven't seen you since, and…"

"I understand." His hand ran lightly over her wrist, enclosing it in a tender clasp. He closed his eyes.

"I was afraid to tell you."

His eyes opened slowly at Sara's whispered confession. "Why?"

"I did not want to see your face when you heard. I was frightened of what I'd see. I could not bear to see you in any pain."

"Sara…" Gilberto paused. There was so much he wanted to say, but couldn't, for so many reasons. He pulled back slightly, straightening up. "Your physician, do you have a good and capable one?"

Sara nodded. "He has an excellent reputation. He studied in Bologna and comes from a long line of physicians. His ancestry has roots in Salerno and Salerno's School of Medicine."

Gilberto nodded, feeling some relief that Sara at least seemed to be in good hands. "And what is he doing for you? Can he remove the tissue around the collection of the black bile and get rid of the lumps of excess?"

"It's too deep within me. Vittorio wants to get a surgeon to bleed me, but the physician is skeptical of barber-surgeons. Besides, it could not be done while we are under the sign of Gemini."

"What is being done?"

"I am on a condensed diet. The physician has been treating me with caustic pastes and herbs. He hopes that those will help to purge the ill humors."

Gilberto nodded. He had been reading every medical text he could get him hands on since hearing of Sara's illness. He browsed the Greek, Latin and Islamic texts, searching for some kind of answer. He read Galen over and over. His own copy of Avicenna's _Canon of Medicine_ was now well worn, taking over from Avicenna's _Book of Healing_ as his new bedtime reading. In all of the texts, none of the answers he found could satisfy him.

He was quiet for some time. The thought of Sara's death and the lack of answers by the texts and by her own physician left him unable to move. His eyes were on his hands, watching his fingers gently play upon her wrist. He felt the slightest touch on his chin, a tingling sensation following and he lifted his face to Sara's.

Sara smiled softly. "Come; let us go for a walk."

He cocked his head. "A walk?"

"Yes, good cousin, will you escort me through town?"

Gilberto glanced at the two books now lying abandoned on the table and smiled. "I'd be delighted."

He stood, helping her up with him and watching her white robe fall gently to the floor as she stood. He still held her wrist, so small and delicate in his hand. Sara gently pulled her wrist away. "Thank you," she whispered, looking away.

Gilberto cleared his throat, finding something caught in it. His voice came out low and strangled. "You're welcome."

*****

They walked slowly through the town, his hand gently cupping her elbow. The walk, for the most part, was spent in silence. Gilberto, when he spoke, recited stories and facts that he thought may be of interest to her. Sara, when she spoke, had stories of her own, of buildings they'd passed and monuments they'd strolled by.

He lost himself in the way her voice rose in passion and the way her eyes gained life and danced with enthusiasm. He loved the way she listened to him, as though she was absolutely absorbed by what he was saying. Even the silences felt perfect, for in them, nothing mattered but their existence. During the conversation, the world felt so alive. He saw beauty in everything she spoke of. In the silence, the world faded away from them and it was just he, with her. There was perfection in the dichotomy. Every moment with her was equally alluring. He felt he could spend the day and every other day with her, just walking with her and watching her and listening to her speak.

Sara's step faltered beside him. Reaching quickly, his arm came around her waist, helping her to stay on her feet. In catching her, he pulled her close. His arms were around her. Her shoulder was pressed against his chest, her temple just beneath his lips. She was so, so close. He could smell her, breathe in her scent. His breath caught and his eyes fell closed. He slowly straightened, still holding onto her, still holding her to him. Neither body stirred. He may have unconsciously pulled her in a little closer and breathed her in again before opening his eyes. Sara's eyes, wide and beautiful, were staring up into his. He was caught in her gaze, unable to move. Slowly, his mind regained control and he slid his hands to her waist, turning her and holding her still before releasing her. "Are you alright?" he whispered.

Sara nodded, stepping back.

"Perhaps the walk was not a good idea."

"No," Sara spoke quickly. "It is good for me. The air is good for me and to be able to walk in the city lifts my spirits."

He stepped towards her, taking her elbow. "Perhaps the walk was only too long, then. You must be tired."

"A little."

"We should go back."

Sara nodded in a manner that suggested resignation. Still, he led her towards her home, keeping her close and watching as her energy faded and her steps weakened. Each time she faltered, he had an arm around her quickly, holding her from falling. When they reached the house, he helped her to the sofa in the library, supporting her as she lay on it. There was a blanket lying across the top of the sofa. He reached for it and placed it upon her. She was so strong and it hurt to see her so weak, just as he knew it hurt her to have him see her that way. He fought the tears that wanted to escape, picked up his book, and sat on the floor in front of her. Softly, he began to read aloud, not daring to stop until he heard her breathing even out. He turned to face her, watching the creature sent by heaven, so peaceful in sleep. A sharp pain shot through his heart and he clutched at his chest. Turning away, he lifted his book again and continued to read until Vittorio entered the room hours later.


	45. The Italian, IV

**A/N: **My apologies for the delay in getting this out.

**The Italian, IV**

Ever so softly, Gilberto whispered aloud some of his older sonnets to Sara. He stopped often, filling in the spaces between sonnets with silence, not daring to look at her. The words came out so quietly, scratchily at times, and he wondered, not for the first time, why he let her talk him into reciting them. He let her because she thought they were written for Clare, and with her listening, it was easier to pretend that they were.

Carefully, his heart straining, he risked a glance towards her. Sara was lying on the sofa, eyes closed. The caustic paste upon her throat and chest blended with the paleness of her skin, the melancholy of her disease so evident in her skin tone. Her breathing was soft, her chest rising and falling gently. His eyes moved to her handkerchief, to the crimson spotting of blood upon it and he was glad she was asleep and could gain a temporary reprieve from her pain.

Placing his book of sonnets down, he stood, his finger reaching out to touch the paste upon her throat. The door opened behind him and closed quietly. He turned, finding Sara's physician approaching him. He glanced down at the paste upon his finger and back to the doctor.

"It's arsenic. It should help to fight the tumor."

Gilberto rubbed the paste between his thumb and forefinger and nodded.

"Has she been asleep long?"

"Not long, but she is resting peacefully now."

"Good."

Gilberto shifted on his feet. He watched as the doctor glanced between them. He rubbed the paste off on his shirt, his eyes dropping to the floor, knowing how visible his feelings must be. The doctor moved around him, kneeling before Sara and examining her. When the doctor stood, he had Gilberto's book of sonnets in his hand. "Yours?"

Gilberto nodded.

"Vittorio tells me that you have been by here, faithfully, every day."

"Vittorio has asked me to watch over her."

"You love her."

Gilberto turned away.

"It's alright, Gilberto. It is good to love a woman of virtue, to love purely, with a deep, spiritual passion, a woman you are not married to, just as it is good for a woman to love a man of merit. There is no loss of honor there, for either the man or the woman. It is a noble thing, to love so purely. You should not feel guilty for that love."

Deep down he knew it, but it did not stop the guilt. His passion should be directed to the wife, yet, even in Sara's pre-wedded seclusion, it had been directed to her. His poems ranged from that deep, spiritual passion the physician spoke of, to the sensual, those poems that should have only been meant for his wife. Yet, even as it had felt wrong, he hadn't been able to stop from writing them. He hadn't been able to stop from expressing his heart the only way that he could permit himself to. And now, he had spoken his heart to her. Though she was mistaken in thinking that those words were for Clare, it did nothing to end the guilt. The humiliation, the pain and the deceit that coupled infidelity were very much present in his consciousness. He had betrayed so many by speaking his thoughts aloud.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes to the physician. The physician had his head cocked, studying him earnestly. "Nothing I say will ease your guilt, will it?"

Gilberto said nothing, knowing he could not deny anything the man said, but not wanting to confirm it. Instead he chose to change the subject. "The paste, in your opinion, has it been working?"

"It is hard to say. Her illness has, to this point, progressed slowly. Whether that is the work of the paste or not…"

He nodded. "And if it begins to progress more rapidly?"

"I will increase the amount of arsenic in her paste, increase the number of herbs she is taking, restrict her diet even further and if worse comes to worse, perform a venesection."

"Let her blood."

The physician nodded.

"Sara told me that you weren't in favor of such a method."

"It would be a last resort, the only way to remove that excess black bile if nothing else works, and I would not let one of those uneducated barber-surgeons, who know nothing of human anatomy, perform it. I would perform it myself, when the planets were in proper alignment to perform the venesection safely."

Gilberto nodded. The physician directed a sad smile towards him, before kneeling back over Sara and fingering the paste. "It's been long enough, but I'm reluctant to wake her. It won't hurt to leave the paste on for a bit longer. When she stirs, let her know she can remove the paste. If she doesn't stir within the hour, wake her please and have her remove it."

"I will."

"Very well, then," the physician stood and brushed by him. "I expect I'll see you again soon. Until then, goodbye, Gilberto."

"Bye."

The physician left him without another word. His eyes moved from the retreating form to Sara and he felt his heart plunge in his chest. She was so pale. If it weren't for the rise and fall of her chest, he might have mistaken her for dead. He kneeled before her, forehead falling to the sofa, next to where her arm rest. The physician saw much, but he could not see how deeply, hopelessly, helplessly in love with Sara, was Gilberto. He adored her with every part of his being, her beauty, her individuality, her mind, her heart. The ancients believed in the unity of souls and so did he, for he knew his soul was united to hers. To lose her was to lose a part of himself.

His hand sought hers and he lifted his head. Tears spilled from his eyes, falling into drops upon her paste. He held her hand for some time, letting his forehead fall to it and feeling the softness of her skin upon his brow.

*****

Sara still hadn't stirred before the hour was up. Gently shaking her by the shoulder, Gilberto watched as her eyes fluttered open, until they were gazing, wide and beautiful, up at him. He told her of her physician's orders and helped her to wipe the paste from her throat, his movements soft and tender. He left her with Isabella to remove the remainder of the paste and to clean her up.

Vittorio returned home as he was waiting. Gilberto greeted Vittorio solemnly, in contrast to Vittorio's own warm, bright greeting.

"Gilberto, will you stay for dinner?"

He couldn't. It would be too painful. He shook his head.

"Please, cousin. I would love it if you stayed."

"Thank you, but no, Vittorio. I should return home and tend to my plants."

The door to the sitting room opened and Sara stepped out. Gilberto watched her eyes flicker between him and her husband.

"Sara, please extend your influence over my cousin and convince him to stay for dinner."

Sara smiled softly. "Please, Gilberto, we would love to have you."

"I…"

"Please stay."

He nodded. "Alright."

He let himself be led to the dining room. Though he felt sullen, and Sara, ill, dinner was not short of life. Typical of Vittorio and his enthusiastic, joyous nature, dinner was filled with stories and talk and energy. All the words were Vittorio's, from his descriptions of the de Medici's palace, to descriptions of de Medici, to the pride and glory of his patronage within the house. Vittorio spoke of the other men under Medici's patronage, of the young scholar Angelo Poliziano, whom had been given the task of educating Medici's young son and whom Gilberto would be fond of instantly. Gilberto only smiled as Vittorio spoke, finding it easier to smile when seeing that Sara was smiling as well. For moments, Vittorio, with the aid of his extraordinary tales, was able to help Gilberto forget the reality that surrounded him.

After dinner, Sara, tired and ill, bid goodnight and the weight of his life came back down upon him. This was Sara's home and not his. She was ill and she was not his. He could not care for her during the night and would not know when the pain returned. He would not be able to comfort her in that pain. That would be left to his cousin.

"Thank you, Gilberto, for continuing to watch over her."

He nodded and left quickly, Vittorio's words only making his feel worse.


	46. The Italian, V

**A/N: **Again, sorry for the delay. It's been so long since I've been on here, that I don't remember if I replied personally to your reviews. If I haven't, then thank you for the reviews. They are so appreciated.

* * *

**The Italian, V**

Days passed as they had before. Time measured Sara's illness as her face grew more and more wane and her body, more and more weak. On her better days, Gilberto took her for walks through the town square, supporting her frame when she tired. He could not stop the breaths from catching when she leaned into his body, nor could he ever get used to it. Her proximity always left his heart fluttering and breaking all within the same moment. On her weaker days, they passed the time reading, at times in comfortable silence, but often with him quietly reading aloud to her, letting her rest. As of late, they had spent far more time in the library, he reading, she resting.

As he watched her slowly fading, he could not help but feel inadequate, as though he and his presence were doing nothing to help her. At times, he could swear he saw her eyes light up on sight of him, but he passed that off as merely his imagination, as wishful thinking. How could he believe that he could actually be the one to lift her spirits? It was she, far more often than he, offering comfort. He was selfish, using the time to pretend she was his, spending whatever time he could with her, just wanting…needing to be near her, but he was not what she needed. Sara needed a cure and she needed her husband.

He often wondered if it was cowardice that kept Vittorio from the house, if it was fear of having to watch Sara grow weaker, and yet he knew that Vittorio was acting as he required. Still, when Vittorio arrived home, full of life and of enthusiasm, giving life to stories of de' Medici's palace, Gilberto found himself struggling not to yell at his cousin, scream that he could not watch Sara grow ill while his cousin, her husband, spent his days far removed from the melancholy of the household. Anger and bitterness would rise in him and would die just as suddenly. Vittorio knew. The change from enthusiasm to tenderness in Vittorio's features as he greeted Sara, demonstrated that Vittorio was not so far removed as appeared.

The earth moved from Gemini to Cancer and still, Sara grew weaker. Gilberto questioned Vittorio on her illness, but Vittorio could not offer any new information. Gilberto had heard the same from Sara's physician. He knew her condition better than anyone and her condition was worsening. She grew weaker by the day. Her regimen was changed, and then changed again. The caustic pastes had barely slowed the growth of the disease. The arsenic did little to help. Whatever effort the physician put forth, it was not enough. And now, now that they were out of Gemini and out of the danger of performing a venesection, it was time to begin thinking about letting Sara's blood.

He entered the large library, finding Sara was not in her usual place upon the sofa. His eyes moved across the room, across the opulently furnished space, across the skillfully patterned walls, to the large, intricate stained-glass windows. The colors, so very rich, darkened the room, giving it a warm glow in the candlelight. His eyes followed the line of the windows, taking in one after another. At the far end of the room, where a stained-glass window once rested, was a clear-paned window. Sara, her frail and delicate body, sat in front of it, her legs drawn beneath her, weight resting on her ankles, staring out at the street below.

His breath caught. As he watched her wistful gaze, he felt overcome by love. Approaching slowly, he sat across from her, his legs dangling over the window seat. His gaze followed hers to the street below, to the merchants and artists walking the street, and to the women, gathered together, faces glowing in conversation. He reached out and touched the glass with his fingertips, wondering if Sara did the same, seeing this new pane of glass as her last link to the outside world. Sara's face turned to his. "Vittorio had it put in so that I could see the street."

He nodded, his eyes moving to hers. Sara broke the gaze, turning her eyes back out the window and the two spent the next several minutes sitting in silence, Sara watching the life on the street outside, Gilberto watching Sara. Her head fell against the glass, a sigh escaping. Her glass. Her windowpane. She had asked for a see-through pane to be put in, he was sure of it. Vittorio never would have thought of it.

There was resignation in her gaze, and a hint of emotion. It stunned him. Before, while he'd occasionally seen acceptance, he'd been far more used to defiance. Gilberto stared as her face narrowed and he could see her fighting off tears. She wiped away the few tears that managed to escape, and continued to stare out the window. Without looking at him, her voice almost distant, he heard her softly utter, "I wonder, when I die, if Vittorio will replace it with the stained-glass again, or if he will leave the clear pane as a shrine to me."

Gilberto felt his heart give a painful lurch. His fingers flew to his lips before falling back to his lap. His own tears threatened to fall. Sara's eyes lifted from the glass and slowly met his. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Sara…"

"With Clare…"

"No, Sara," he interrupted, wondering how she always came back to Clare. Didn't she see the heartbreak was for her? Could she not see the love he had for her, far more than courtly? Did he imagine the love he saw in her, or was that only courtly? His eyes fell to the hands on his lap.

Staring down, he caught a glimpse of Sara's hand reaching forward. It landed lightly on his forearm, grasping faintly. Her palm was so soft, her fingers, so delicate, and he could only stare at the hand. Her thumb brushed over his skin, tender and painful and just as he was about to get lost in the breathtaking sensation of it, he forced himself to break his stare and meet her gaze.

Sara gave him a sad smile. "I'm sorry." Her hand left his arm, falling into her own lap.

"Sara, it's you." The words had been uttered before he could suppress them. "My pain comes from the knowledge of what is happening to you."

Sara looked away and he sighed, falling back against the window frame.

"I know." It was Sara's voice, so, so quiet. He sat up, waiting to see if she would say any more.

"You're a dear friend, Gilberto."

He closed his eyes, nodding. It was, after all, all that he was, a dear friend.

When his eyes reopened, Sara was staring, wistfully, back out the window. If only he could comfort her the way she could him, a hand on his arm, on his face. He shifted forward, closing the space between them. His hand lifted, slowly reaching out for her cheek, but Sara's hand caught his wrist. She stared at him, eyes wide, and then shook her head. "Gilberto, no, please, no."

He could hear the tears in her voice as her eyes pleaded with him. His hand dropped and he looked away, feeling guilt and shame at what came over him. She was Vittorio's. In front of him, Sara had curled up, crying in earnest. Gilberto stood and kneeled before her, his head falling to the window seat. "I'm sorry, Sara, so very sorry."

Gilberto lifted his face to see Sara's head shaking, tears still spilling. He stood, turning away from her. "Perhaps, I should let you rest this afternoon."

Her faint, "please," whispered through tears behind him, broke his heart. Stealing one quick glance over his shoulder, he hesitated only slightly before leaving the room.


	47. The Italian, VI

**The Italian, VI**

In his dream he felt as though he was falling, plummeting into something, or rather into nothingness, air whizzing past him as he dropped. He startled awake, bolting upright in the chair and taking quick glances around the room, confused and breathing rapidly. He was in his library, books open around him. He rubbed his tired eyes as the night before quickly came back to him. He'd fallen asleep in his chair, never having made it to his bed.

The day before, the physician had been in to see Sara again. He'd felt anxious, watching the doctor shake his head, over and over, whispering to Sara as she nodded, and not vocalizing a word to him. Gilberto had paced, nervous…uneasy, and waited for Vittorio to come home. Fear had filled him as he read the concern in the physician's eyes and the solemnness in Sara's. The physician kept near Sara, preventing Gilberto from asking her about the prognosis. The news, the physician felt, was best left for when Vittorio returned. Waiting for Vittorio had been agony.

Gilberto only received the explanation when Vittorio arrived home, and only when Vittorio insisted Gilberto be allowed to stay to hear what the physician had to say. As he feared, the news was not good. Letting Sara's blood seemed to be the only remaining option.

Gilberto had taken the news nodding, but tuning out of the rest of the good physician's ramblings. He'd been so shaken, he had only barely managed to mumble a goodbye before stumbling blindly home. Once home, he opened every medical text he could find, from Galen to Avicenna, searching again for answers to every question and plea he had. _Bad Blood. Melanchole. Ill Humours. Excess Black Bile. _He'd seen the words so many times before, read up on bloodletting many times before Sara fell ill, and countless times after. Letting blood had been a method since Galen, practiced over and over again, refined and quite common in use, and yet, the thought of bleeding Sara of the life force flowing through her left him uneasy. Learned men, people to hold up and respect for their intellect, described it in detail and advocated it, and yet Gilberto needed to know more. He had more questions and nothing he read could answer any of them.

If the physician had stated that he wanted to cut Sara open to remove a tumor, Gilberto would have felt far more at ease. Sara's tumors, however, could not be reached. As uneasy as he felt, as much as he longed to understand, he knew that they were out of options. The venesection was a last resort, one they had to take.

Standing, he arched his stomach forward, stretching out. He was stiff and sore from sleeping in the chair. He craned his neck, stretching the taut muscles and ran a hand over neck and shoulder, giving a couple squeezes in an attempt to massage those muscles. Walking proved difficult as his leg had fallen asleep, but once he could manage, he hobbled to the kitchen and asked Christina to send a message to the University, canceling his class for the day. He did not worry about the possible repercussions. It was summer. The _Mysteries _were in town. The students could enjoy the morning outdoors. Besides, there were rumors that de Medici was going to close down the University and move the _Studio fiorentino _to Pisa, those the same rumors also stated that another Florence would retain much of the humanist and language studies, so he could retain his job without having to move. None of it even crossed his mind. He only wanted to be near Sara.

He ate little before setting about for Vittorio's. As he walked, he could not help but perceive the beauty of the day, nor could he help being struck by the irony of it. On days past, he may have lingered on the street, breathing in the life that was Florence, but now, he only shuffled towards his destination, anxious to see Sara. When he arrived, Isabella seemed only slightly startled by the sight of him that early. Wordlessly, she let him pass and he dashed through the corridor to the library.

Sara was in the same place she'd been in the day he'd let out the pain he felt at her illness, the place he'd often found her in as of late. His entrance must have woken her from her trance because her head lifted from the glass and she turned to him, eyes dim at first, and then widening. He crossed the room, forcing a smile upon his face, forcing a levity he did not feel. He wasn't sure if she was up to it, but she was being bled in just a few short days and he wanted her to feel the magnificence of the present day. "Come on, let's into town."

Sara cocked her head, appearing as though she wanted, so bad, to follow through on his idea. He smiled, extending his hand to help her up. Reaching around her waist to steady her, closed his eyes, feeling a terrible ache in his chest and that breathlessness he felt whenever he was in close proximity to her and whispered, "Are you in much pain today?"

She shook her head softly. "No."

He smiled again. "Good. _The Mysteries _are in town. de' Medici brought them in to celebrate the birth of his daughter, Maddalena. Let's go to the court and watch them. What do you think?"

Gilberto was awarded with a bright smile. "I'd like that."

"Splendid." He stepped away from her, knowing how her independent spirit would rally if he began helping her without her asking. When she faltered, he stepped towards her again, lightly grasping her hips. On their own account, his fingers played over the fabric there. He could not let go. Her eyes lifted to his and he found himself lost in them.

"Thanks," she whispered, eyes locked onto his.

It took a moment, staring at her, unable to break his gaze before he nodded, his hands falling to his sides. "Lean on me whenever you need."

She nodded, her gaze still penetrating his. He swallowed and offered his arm, feeling so relieved when she broke the gaze and took the proffered arm.

*****

They left the _Mysteries_ early. It was not because they were not captivated by the actors, who on that particular day, gave life to the Greek tale of Orpheus, but rather because standing for so long was difficult for Sara and her legs began to weaken beneath her.

Gilberto led Sara from the crowd, garnering a few looks from unamused townspeople. When they saw her fragile state though, they made room for the two to pass. Though it may have been best to lead Sara home, Gilberto did not want to waste the beauty of the day. He could see, by watching her, that she was reluctant to go home as well. She did not look ready for it. Sara needed to sit and to rest, but Gilberto felt it would do both of them far more good to stay in town for awhile.

He led her to the botanical gardens, removing his jacket and laying it on the grass for Sara to sit on. He helped her down and sat beside her, watching as she glanced around the garden, eyes sparkling, lips slightly parted in a gentle smile.

He had always appreciated botany, but sharing it with Sara that day, he found that appreciation blossomed into love. He spoke about the different varieties plants and smiled as he watched Sara listening so intently. He quoted Pliny, but before he could site his quote, she spoke up and named the quote. All afternoon he drifted into her, shuffling closer and listening to her speak. It was such a beautiful day, such beautiful surroundings, so precious. To share that day and the intimacy of it would be something he would treasure forever. How he longed to spend the rest of his days just as this one. How could he ever think he would ever be ready to lose her?

That thought led to others. All of his anxieties quickly washed over him and he quieted. For moments he was lost in thought, in anguish. Only after some time did he notice Sara was lost in her own thoughts and that pained him as well. He stared at his surroundings, feeling as though the peace of it was lost. He felt lightheaded. There was nothing he could do to change any of it. He was just a man, struggling to be the best man he could and failing because he was in love with another man's wife. He loved her so completely.

In the distance, he watched as a Moslem passed through the garden and felt a deep rooted admiration for the Moslem. Like the people of Florence and of Tuscany, the people of the Islamic empire, Arabs and Persians alike, held that same admiration for speech and for intellect. Their script was strikingly beautiful. They told beautiful stories of love, wrote beautiful poems on the same subject, and yet there was this dignity and nobleness and grace about them, these men of Mohammed, these men of Saladin. Somehow, Gilberto thought, if he had been a Moslem, he may have been able to bear his suffering better.

His eyes moved back to Sara. She was still in her own world, her eyes not able to conceal their sadness and their wistfulness. In her eyes, he found peace again. Even sad, he loved her eyes. He loved the warmth of the brown. Though blue was the ideal, he much preferred brown. Blue eyes looked distant. His eyes were blue. But Sara's eyes, even in her sadness, were warm, welcoming. He just wished he could remove the sadness. Slowly, he moved his arm towards her, needing to touch her, to comfort her. He grasped her arm softly, just beneath her elbow, his thumb brushing his caress. He wanted to further and touch her cheek or hold her, but he was afraid of her rebuke. It was not appropriate. It was too intimate. The arm was safe. She did not pull away from his touch on her arm and he never dreamed of the relief he felt.

He watched as Sara's eyes closed. He saw her lips press together, as if in pain, and he knew he should drop his hand. Yet, he could not. His hand remained on her arm, tenderly caressing it and eyes still closed, Sara's face relaxed. Her lips turned up into a small smile and he stared at her, bathed in sunlight, so utterly beautiful. He continued to stare, using the sunlight to discover her all over again. He wished it were different. He wished that they could have spent this moment differently, Sara well and Sara, his wife. He wished they could be two young lovers, sitting on the grass, exchanging light touches barely appropriate to the public setting. He wished that he could watch as the sunlight lit her smile and he wished he could be the one to make her happy enough to have that brilliant smile to light. He held the image in his mind and stared at her, thankful to have even this moment. He was with her, watching her soft smile and breathtaking eyes radiant in the sun. He wanted to entrench this moment, this picture into his memory, and so he stared. When it felt like he'd been staring too long, he forced his eyes to drop to the grass.

"Gilberto?"

"Hmm?" He lifted his eyes back to hers.

"When was the last time you wrote anything?"

He closed his eyes. How long had Sara been ill? He'd been so consumed by her illness, spending nearly all of his free time with her. There were plenty of moments where he could have spent writing though, when she slept, or when he returned home, yet he feared that penning his thoughts would make it all the more real. A part of him also felt it was unfair or even dishonorable to write about the pain Sara's illness brought him. It was unfair to Vittorio and unfair to the memory of Clare. Then, he remembered he hadn't penned a word since Clare's accident. Even before he heard of Sara's illness, he did not write. His writing had been held in high esteem, but misunderstood as verse to his wife. When Clare died, everybody had expected these great works of mourning and while he did mourn, he loved. He never felt the pain of his wife's death expected of him. He only now understood that pain. Now, with Sara's illness, grief flowed from him and just as he had when Clare died, he felt too guilty to write.

"It's been some time."

Sara nodded. "I wish you'd write again. You write with such beauty."

He longed to tell her that it was because of her. She was his inspiration, his center. He remained silent. His eyes locked onto hers again, not able to escape from her eyes. He waited for her look to falter, but like his own eyes, hers would not leave his. For a long time, he thought he could fight his love for her. He thought that if he wrote it down, it wouldn't be as strong. He thought if he could love Clare and be with Clare, his love for Sara would fade. He thought if he could watch Sara live happily with his cousin, he could move on from her. He thought if he spent this time with her, he could say goodbye. Often times, he thought he fabricated his love, that it was too pure to be real and he was merely searching for an ideal. Staring into her eyes, he understood, then, in a moment that felt too intimate to be shared in public, that they'd always held this connection, this quiet intimacy. They would always hold it. It would remain after she was gone. He would never be able to remove himself from her and when he fought to, that connection would be there and be stronger. Her pain was his. Her happiness was his. Her fears were his. Her everything…his. He could never let her go.

He leaned in and heard her intake of breath. His own breathing grew heavier. He stared into her eyes, wondering at all the emotions at play in them. If he could just whisper a kiss onto her skin, whisper an embrace, but he could not. His honor, her honor, meant more than that. As he leaned forward, he placed his hand on the ground, pushing up to stand. He looked down to watch Sara let out her breath. He reached out his hands to hers and helped her up. "Perhaps we should get back."

Sara nodded and he gave her his arm. As they walked, he stepped closer and closer, supporting her faltering steps. It was silent for some time, until Sara broke the silence. "It is breathing, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"The city, it's so alive."

He nodded. It was noticeable that day because _the_ _Mysteries_ were in town, but even without them, the city was alive and flowing. It had been a long time since he noticed it, since Sara fell ill. Given that it was an effort for Sara to get out now, it had likely been a long time since she noticed it too. He watched Sara smile and decided not to dwell on her illness. Florence was alive and breathing and Sara spent the day living it. It was their city, their thriving city of intellect and humanism and scholarship and art. He smiled softly, looking at Sara. "For a long time, it was said that all roads lead to Rome. Now, I think, all roads lead to Florence."

"I think you're right. It feels that way. Right now, this is the center of everything."

He stopped walking and held her close, arm around her waist, supporting her. He gazed down at her, his voice falling soft. "It is. This is the center of everything."

It fell quiet after that. They continued on what was a stroll for Gilberto and a trek for Sara, back to the house. By the time they reached the front step, Sara was fatigued and breathless. Gilberto lifted her into his arms, carefully navigating the steps and was just about to knock when the door opened before him. Eyes wide, he stared at a young boy in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

"I saw you come up the step. You looked in need of aid."

He glanced down at Sara, cradled against his chest, her arms thrown around his shoulders and nodded. "Thank you."

"I've been waiting for you. Vittorio sent me with a message."

"Let me put the lady down first?"

"Oh, yes, of course."

Gilberto walked past the boy and carefully deposited Sara on the sofa in the library. He covered her with a blanked and returned to the young man. "The message?"

"Vittorio is unable to make it home tonight. He is staying at de' Medici's. He said something about realizing his vision and he spoke as if you'd understand. He wishes you stay the night."

Gilberto's eyes widened. Could he spend the night in the same house as Sara? Could he do it without Vittorio around?

"I've already placed fresh linen on one of the beds."

He turned to Isabella. "You have?" He thought of Sara and of her illness. He'd sworn he would do whatever he could to take care of her. He closed his eyes and then opened them again. "Thank you."

Isabella smiled and flitted away. The young lad smiled. "I'll let Vittorio know you've accepted."

"Please."

The boy nodded and smiled before leaving. Gilberto closed the door, letting out a deep breath. He slowly made his way to the library, entering to find Sara smirking. "What was that about?"

"Vittorio cannot make it home tonight. He's at that point in one of his paintings."

Sara smiled. "He'll likely sleep beneath the canvas tonight, his focus and dreams on each brush stroke."

Gilberto could not help but smirk. His face grew solemn and soft. "He asked that I stay."

Sara's eyes widened. He waited for her to say something, but she only nodded, very slowly. No more was said. He read to her while she napped. They enjoyed a quiet dinner. He frowned as he watched her drink some new herbal concoction an apothecary had persuaded Vittorio to have her try.

After dinner, he waited until Isabella helped her into a nightgown and then he helped her into bed, knowing he shouldn't, but unable to turn down her request. He wanted to be there, wanted to help send her into a deep and soothing sleep. He pulled a chair next to the bed, grasping her hand and brushing his thumb over it. Her eyes closed. "Gilberto?" she whispered.

"Yes," he answered softly.

"It was a lovely day."

He nodded. "It was."

"I don't think I've spent a lovelier one. It was…" Sara's voice died off. Her eyes were closed. Gilberto's free hand came up to stroke her hair. He leaned into her head and spoke softly, finishing her thought with his own. "The best."

Sara smiled in her sleep, curling towards him slightly. He could watch her forever, but he'd gone far past propriety. "Goodnight, Sara," he whispered, standing. He pulled away his hand and watched as her hand fell back against the bed. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he turned and exited the room.


	48. The Italian, VII

**A/N: **Sorry about the really late update. It got busy, then I was spring breaking it for a couple of weeks. I am back now. The update is short, but I'm hoping it will buy me a little time to get back into the swing of things.

**The Italian, VII**

He woke slowly, breathing in the unfamiliar scent and momentarily forgetting where he was. His eyes opened and he glanced about the room, remembering the day before, that almost too perfect afternoon with Sara and the night that followed, watching her drift to sleep and retiring to another room. Turning on his side, he took a deep breath, inhaling the morning air and feeling another pang of longing. What would it have been like to have fallen asleep in that other room, to have climbed into bed with Sara, holding her in sleep and just once feeling what she felt like beneath his fingertips?

Dwelling on what wasn't and could never be was too painful, and he forced himself to forget his longings. Pushing himself up, he rose and dressed slowly. He slipped from the room and peeked out into the house, a little shy and unsure. It was quiet as he made his way down the hall, pausing at Sara's door and torn between propriety and checking in on her. What would the house staff think if they saw him stealing in and out of Sara's room? Sighing, he resumed his walk to the kitchen.

Isabella was in the kitchen, flitting around like a butterfly. Bemused, he stopped to watch without interrupting, and found that she appeared to be preparing to bring Sara her meal. Isabella turned suddenly, smiled and wordlessly handed a tray to him, raising her eyebrow. He took the tray, nodding, and padded back off in the direction of Sara's room.

With a shaking hand, he knocked on the door. Sara's soft voice bid him entry and he stepped in slowly, shyly carrying the tray with one hand. He stopped in the doorway, finding her in bed and feeling hesitant to move forward. After an awkward pause and Sara's soft, amused smile, he stepped forward and placed the tray upon her lap. When he turned to leave, he felt Sara's hand, that fiery touch that burned into him, stop him. Her eyes asked him to stay and he was at her mercy. He left only long enough to send a message, cancelling his class, and then he was beside her again, perched on the edge of her bed.

They talked softly over breakfast, sharing the food upon the tray as Sara's appetite was minimal that morning. Watching her nibble on each bite of food, he smiled sadly as she pushed far more food his way than what made it to her mouth. When they finished, he removed the tray and resumed his place on the edge of her bed. Sara fell back, her delicate fingers reaching for a book at her bedside, and he took it from her, reading softly until she fell asleep.

Worn from the day before, Sara remained in bed most of the day. Gilberto stayed by her bedside, pulling up a chair, holding her hand and longing to do more. Gazing down at her, he was struck with the need to lie beside her and pull her gently into his arms, place tender kisses upon her pale face, sooth and comfort her, whispering endearments into her ear. He closed his eyes, feeling her fingertips run softly over the back of his hand. He watched her sleep, her chest rise and fall softly. As the morning passed on to afternoon, he drifted in, closing the space between them.

Sara let out a small moan in her sleep and he gripped her hand, leaning down to her. In a bold and impulsive move, he placed a soft hiss beside her brow, hoping the action would sooth her.

"Vittorio," she whispered, still asleep, and he choked back a sob, his heart coming as close to breaking as was physically possible. His chest hurt with a pain never felt before. The ache of her whisper, her love for his cousin, was so very excruciating and yet he stayed, unable to leave her.

Holding her hand, he wept softly. He could not leave her alone and in pain, no matter what ache her presence caused him. He wept and held her hand softly in his until she woke, confused, yet as tender and as beautiful a person as ever. Trying to hide his tears, he turned his head, but her fingers caught his chin and turned his face to meet hers. Then, staring into his eyes, she was comforting him, wiping the tears from his eyes and causing him to sob harder. Her hand cupped his face and she held it there, letting him lean into it and receive the comfort only her touch could give.

No one disturbed them and the afternoon passed on as had the morning. Gilberto moved between longing and sadness, wistfulness and guilt, pain and comfort. Of all the emotions jockeying around that day, the only one to remain, steadfast amongst all others, was love.

*****

When Vittorio arrived home, though it was coupled with regret, it was with no small amount of relief that Gilberto tore himself from Sara's bedside. Sara's whispered, "Vittorio," had stayed with him. Vittorio was the one she wanted, the one she needed. Gilberto went home to lick his wounds, but the pain of the afternoon was too great. He sat alone in his study all night, staring at his books, wanting to vow not to return to that house, but knowing he would. He could not stay away, nor could he abandon her. When the sun came up, he shuffled to the University and then to Vittorio's, the same as usual.

Though he couldn't look at Sara without thinking of the whisper that fell from her lips the morning before, Gilberto let none of his heartache show. She was his focus. The physician would be bleeding her the next day and he made it his task to distract her from the procedure that was silently understood to be Sara's last chance. He could see his fears reflected in her eyes, and vowed to do whatever he could to make those fears disappear for whatever length he could.

He spent the day finding ways to make her smile or laugh, regaling her with anecdotes and speaking of his passions, things he knew that she too, was passionate about. For moments in each hour, when she smiled or laughed, or looked around with her eyes bright and sparkling, he was able to put aside the pain.

Vittorio arrived home early and with a reluctant arrivedercci, Gilberto promised to be there for the bleeding the next day. He left Sara to her husband that afternoon and walked numbly around the city, his aches and fears and longings shutting him out from the life of streets around him.


	49. The Italian, VIII

**The Italian, VIII**

Approaching the house, Gilberto felt a moment of hesitation. He stood on the step, looking up at his cousin's home and took a deep breath. In the days and weeks since his daily visits began, he'd long stopped knocking on the door, though it felt awkward and improper to drop the courtesy. It was only by request from the staff and his wish not to disturb the staff that now had so much more on their hands with Sara's illness, that he reluctantly began entering without announcement.

That morning he paused by the door before opening it slowly and stepping inside. There was a silence and stillness about that house when he entered. Missing were the usual sounds of staff scurrying about and the absence of those sounds was disquieting. The air was warm and felt as though it wasn't moving, but hovering in place.

Gilberto padded softly towards the study, weary of disturbing the quiet of the house. He glanced in the study, seeing nothing, and moved on. His steps were slow, hesitant, and as he saw no sign of Sara or Vittorio, or any of the staff in the library or the dining hall, he felt his nerves grow. He moved towards Sara's room, knocking softly, hearing no response, and then cracking the door open slightly. He peeked in, discovering she was not in bed. Freezing momentarily, he let his mind push his fears away before backing out of the doorway and closing the door with his movements.

"Gilberto."

He turned and found Vittorio behind him. Casting a quick glance at Sara's door, the one he'd just closed, he swallowed before meeting Vittorio's eyes.

"Sara is in one of the spare rooms. Our physician did not want to contaminate the study, or her chamber with her blood."

Gilberto nodded and followed Vittorio to the room he'd slept in only one night before. When they entered, Gilberto stilled in the doorway. Sara lay where he lay. He cast a tender glance at her, moving into the room and letting Vittorio close the door behind him.

Above Sara, the physician worked to prepare her for the venesection. Gilberto's eyes followed every movement as the physician lowered Sara's blouse to expose the top of her chest and dabbed at the area with a warm cloth. When Sara's head turned and her eyes, gentle and searching, landed on his, Gilberto had to suck in a breath.

In an instant, Vittorio was gone from his side, sweeping past him and landing at Sara's bedside. Gilberto watched, in pain but unable to look away, as Vittorio took Sara's hand between his and tenderly held on. It ached to witness Vittorio provide the comfort he longed to give Sara. He stumbled backwards, falling back against the wall, unprepared for the intensity of pain the morning would have on his heart.

Sara's eyes hadn't left his. She gazed tenderly at him as he leaned back against the wall, looking at her with anguish and with yearning. He watched as the physician removed his tools from their cloth wrapping. Sara's eyes, with their barely concealed fear, were still on Gilberto's and he held them, offering whatever reassurance he could with only a look. Though her hand was clasped between her husbands's, Sara's eyes never left Gilberto's, and he stared back, unwilling and unable to break the connection.

Upon seeing Sara wince as the physician's lancet made its first incision, just below Sara's collarbone, Gilberto pushed himself off the wall and took an unconscious step forward. It was insufferable to see her in any pain, though he knew that it was unavoidable. Sara's eyes were still locked to his, never looking away, never even blinking. Grissom's own gaze, while holding Sara's, flitted occasionally to the blood seeping from the incision.

The physician took the lancet and cut deeper into the vein so that blood streamed a little more rapidly. Gilberto shuddered, but held Sara's gaze, letting his peripheral watch the physician and the young assistant soak up the blood and dispose of it. As he observed the blood seeping from Sara's body, he had to remember that both Galen and Avicenna advocated this and his reaction was only caused by seeing Sara have to go through it.

It continued on as the physician continued to let blood from Sara's chest, letting it trickle slowly from her body. The smell in the room, of the blood, was unspeakable and had Gilberto feeling sick as he thought of it as Sara's blood. Sara's eyes, though still on Gilberto, began to flutter open and closed as though she were fighting to stay awake. Anguished, Gilberto stepped forward. "Isn't this enough? Are you going to drain all of her blood?"

Both Vittorio and the physician glanced up at him. The physician glanced back down at Sara and wiped away the blood from her incision. "Just a little more."

"She's passed out."

"Not to worry. Give her something eat or to drink and it will restore her."

Vittorio stood up, dropping Sara's hand from his. "I'll get some grapes."

"She can't eat grapes," Gilberto interjected quickly, staring at both the physician and Vittorio. "She can't swallow them. The skins get stuck in her throat."

"Oh." Vittorio glanced around. "Wine?"

Gilberto nodded and watched as Vittorio sent for wine before returning to his wife's side. The wine came and Vittorio held it to Sara's lips. Gilberto watched as she sputtered momentarily before waking and sipping at the chalice. Her eyes remained open for another period of time, locked back on Gilberto's, remained open for another period of time before closing again.

"Please," Gilberto whispered. The physician looked up at him. "She's merely sleeping. When she wakes, we'll give her more wine, but it will do her no harm to get some sleep now."

Gilberto looked down at Sara, so still on the bed, and turned away sharply, his head falling forward. He stared down at the wall where it meets the floor and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he turned around again, Sara was completely tranquil on the bed, apart from the gently rise and fall of her chest and the physician was placing bandages over her incisions.

Gilberto watched as Vittorio lifted Sara's hand to his lips and kissed it before rising. The physician and his assistant both brushed past Gilberto, carrying the sacks of contaminated blood. Vittorio followed, placing a hand on Gilberto's shoulder. "I have business to take care of with the physician. Will you stay with Sara while she sleeps?"

Gilberto nodded. Vittorio's hand disappeared from his shoulder and Gilberto was left alone with Sara. He moved to the bed, kneeling beside it. He clasped Sara's hand in his, and brought it to his lips, kissing it as Vittorio had moments before. Sara stirred and he froze, her hand still so very near his mouth, his warm breath fanning over it.

"Mmm," she muttered and he watched her breath fill her chest and then leave. Her face turned into the pillow. There was a soft smile upon her lips. "It smells like you."

He nearly choked on his tears. He held her hand to his mouth, squeezing his eyes together, fighting not to let his tears fall. "Sara, darling?" he whispered, getting no response. She was asleep again. He leaned in, his hand brushing the hair from her face, letting his fingertips know the feel of her cheek and her eyebrow, her strands of hair between his fingers. "Sara," he whispered again. "Let this work. Would that I could express how tenderly I love you. You are my breath, my life." He kissed her hand again and let his head fall to the bed, his tears draining onto the sheets below.


	50. The Italian, IX

**The Italian, IX**

For the next half day and a day, Gilberto watched Vittorio look after Sara, taking care of her and all of her needs. He hovered, wanting to help, to be of some use, but his place as Sara's caregiver, company and companion had been usurped by her husband. She no longer needed him and it wounded him, causing him to wonder why he stayed when it was so painful to do so. He stayed because he had to know. He needed to know whether or not the venesection worked, whether or not bleeding her had purged her of those melancholy humors that made her so very ill. It would be time before they could tell; he knew it would take time, that the effects would not be immediate, but he just needed to be near her while they waited it out. Despite the ache, he resigned himself to waiting.

The waiting was the hardest. Harder than watching his cousin tenderly care for his love, the waiting tore at him. Patience had been a virtue it he'd been blessed with in abundance, but now, he paced anxiously, unable to endure even a day of not knowing. He was caught in an endless cycle of pain, waiting and watching, wondering if Sara would pull through it all and hoping she had enough fight left in her to do so. In the past month he'd been so afraid, having to wait and watch as the fight rose and died in her, only to struggle up from nothing to grow in her again. Could she keep fighting? He wished he could be sure. In the afternoon and day since her venesection, Sara could only rest.

In her wakeful moments, Gilberto noticed how she and Vittorio tried to draw him into conversation. He longed to know what to say, to make it as easy as they tried to make it, but found he was unable to respond appropriately to their attempts. More often than not, his words drifted off into the obscure, leaving silences and wondering glances in their wake. He killed conversations and so he kept quiet, watching and waiting.

When Sara slept, Vittorio filled the silences, speaking without pause. Though at first Gilberto was comforted by Vittorio's constant talk and need to fill the silence with words and though he was relieved at not being expected to speak, he soon longed for the quiet, for that solitude where he could be alone with his thoughts.

Vittorio's library became his place of escape. In it, he could get reprieve from his cousin. He could be alone, but near Sara. He could be away from the heartbreaking presence of her husband with her, but close enough to feel her and be there in the event he was needed. And, he needed to be near her, just to feel her presence for however long he could, to be able to run to her and comfort her and be there when her soul finally decided which world it wanted to live in.

It was in the library where Vittorio found him. With the afternoon pressing into evening, Gilberto debated walking home for the night. He shifted in his chair, mentally preparing himself to bid Sara farewell for the evening, when Vittorio stepped in looking pensive and uncertain. Gilberto shot up in his chair. "How is she?"

"She's resting right now."

Gilberto watched as Vittorio drew his lips in and brought the tips of his fingers in together. Not used to witnessing any shortness in speech in his cousin, Gilberto waited nervously for Vittorio to push past whatever barrier was blocking the words. Vittorio drew in a breath. "Gilberto, I've spent the past couple of days away from my work…to care for Sara, as I know you understand. I must get back and continue. I return to de Medici's tomorrow and to make up for these past couple days lost, I will be spending the next couple of days there without return. I ask that you please stay here with Sara."

Gilberto gaped at his cousin. "You could leave Sara? With her illness that way it is right now?"

"The physician says we will not see change in her for some time. It could be weeks. I'll only be gone days."

Gilberto stood up. "Vittorio, you can't…"

"Gilberto, I must. De Medici…"

"Sara needs you."

Vittorio shook his head. "You're here, cousin. I trust you'll watch over her and keep her company."

"She's your wife." His words cracked at the end, the pain of vocalizing that Sara was another's too much. He felt himself growing exasperated.

"Gilberto, please…"

"You're her husband. She needs you."

"She needs you. You're better at holding her attention, comforting her, keeping her spirits up. She tires of my constant talk of painting, though she indulges me. After years spent listening to my talk, she bores of it."

Gilberto stared at his cousin as though the man was obtuse. The fact that Sara loved discussing art was beside the point. Vittorio was choosing to hide and asking him to bear the pain. He felt his anger rising with his voice. "You're her husband. She needs you. Do you not remember your vows?"

"I vowed to do what is best for her and I am."

"No! If you were, you would stay. What do you know of what is best for her? I am here while you are away. I sit and watch her grow weaker by the day while you are removed from it all. I listen to you speak of some sketch by a da Vinci while Sara is sick. You make conversation like she isn't and now you pretend you're doing what is best? If you were here, you'd see that this isn't what is best for her. If you were here, you would see that she needs you." His voice died off. He fell back into the chair.

He could feel Vittorio's eyes on him. He looked up, watching Vittorio patiently wait for him to be ready to calm and listen. He couldn't calm. He was shaking from the anger. He stood again, knowing that his cousin would likely say something that would cause him to yell again and knowing that he would not be able to stop himself. Still, Vittorio pressed on. "In all our years of marriage, I've known what Sara needs. Do not think I know not what she needs. It isn't me."

"It's your name she whispers in her sleep!"

The room turned utterly silent in the space of a breath. Not a sound could be heard. Gilberto's eyes were wide as he realized the words he'd yelled in haste. Vittorio stared at him and he forced himself not to look away. For minutes they stared at each other. Then, Vittorio turned to the door. "I know you'll take good care of her." The door opened and closed quietly, and Gilberto was alone again.

*****

There were many pauses in his readings as he found himself glancing up at Sara, seated upright on the sofa, listening intently. He marveled at how comfortable it felt, being alone with her, reading to her, watching her eyes brighten upon particular passages. For moments, he could almost forget she was ill.

He'd remained by her side since Vittorio left, watching for the slightest signs, some subtle gestures that would indicate her strength was returning. Sara, for her part, had spent as much time resting as she'd spent awake. When she slept, Gilberto drifted closer, watching her breaths rise and fall, observing the measures of her life. He let his fingers glide over her arm, through her hair, trace the line of her cheeks or jaw, the lightest whisper of touches, things he would never permit himself to do while she was awake. He longed, so badly, to be able to touch her like that all the time, but the memory of his one attempt, of her hand catching his wrist and the look in her eyes, the alarm and the pleading, stopped him. He glanced up at Sara again, letting out a deep sigh and then turned his eyes back to the book.

When he lowered the book again, he glanced at Sara to find her not looking off in wonder as she had all the times before, but watching him intently. His breath caught and he looked away, but he could still feel her eyes on him. He turned to her again, catching her gaze and wishing he could read what was in her eyes. The book fell to his lap as he stared back at her. Sara's lips twisted into a slight smirk, causing him to raise an eyebrow. "What is it?"

She paused, then, "What do you think? Do you think they've purged all the ill humors from my body?"

Though she tried to present levity with the smirk, the fear and the question in her eyes betrayed her and he could see that it was a serious question. He could continue the pretext of levity, but deep inside, he knew she wanted a serious answer. "I don't know."

Sara nodded, curling one fist and lifting it only to let it drop back onto her lap. Her lips lifted into a reluctant half smile. "Vittorio wouldn't talk about it, other than to say, 'of course they're gone'."

Gilberto nodded in return. Vittorio could tell her that, could ignore the seriousness of it all, of her question, of the illness. Vittorio could make light, often clueless of when a person wanted the truth. He had an amazing ability of ignoring how things really were. Gilberto, on the other hand, did not possess that ability. He could only be honest. He took her hand. "I hope so, Sara."

"He's scared, Vittorio. I could see it in his eyes, just like I can see it in yours."

Gilberto closed his eyes, the pain of her mention of Vittorio's name, of her words and the truth in them, of his fears, washing over him. His thumb ran over Sara's hand. He took a deep breath, his eyes still closed, his head dropping forward. There was a light touch, so soft and delicate, on his cheek, so light he wondered if he were imagining it. The touch drifted to his chin and he felt his face being lifted. He took another deep breath and let his eyes flutter open. Sara's hand dropped from his face, but her eyes remained on his. He wanted to reach out and touch her again, beg her to bring those delicate fingertips back to his face so that he could feel their warmth, but he was afraid. He stared at her. Sara's eyes dropped from his. He watched as she stared down at their hands, moving her hand so that their fingers were linked. "You take such good care of me, Gilberto."

He swallowed, not knowing what to say in response.

"Why did you and Clare not have children?"

His eyes widened before he turned his head, looking away. He could not answer that question. How could he tell her that he could not bed his wife without thinking of her? The guilt of his years of marriage and his love for Sara came pouring back in.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that." Sara paused for a moment and he let his face turn back to hers. She still had her head down, staring at their linked fingers. "It's just that I think you would have made a wonderful father."

He said nothing, only stared at her, wondering why she and Vittorio never had their own child. He imagined her as a mother and felt that none would have made better. She was so warm and compassionate, so understanding… "We tried," he started, choking on his words, "briefly at the beginning."

Sara nodded. "Vittorio and I tried too, briefly at the beginning, but then, well, when we couldn't conceive, we stopped. That was years ago. We haven't tried since, but still, I wonder what it would have been like to have brought life into the world. I wonder if it would have been easier for you, easier for Vittorio, to have something left to hold on to."

He wondered the same, and then, wondered if he would cling to Sara's child as much as he clung to his, wanting to keep a part of her near him. The guilt weighed on his heart and he had to close his eyes again. Perhaps it was better that neither Clare nor Sara conceived.

Sara was silent. Gilberto opened his eyes and moved to kneel before the sofa. There were tears in Sara's eyes. He held her hand tightly, lifting it to kiss her knuckles. "You would have made a wonderful mother, Sara. Your child would have been beautiful."

Sara removed her hand from his. She nodded, but turned away slightly. "I think I want to rest now."

He swallowed and nodded, helping her to lie upon the sofa and making sure she was comfortable. "Do you want me to read to you until you drift to sleep?"

"Please," she whispered. He lifted the book and began to read softly, his voice quietly drawing out each word. He waited for the sound of her measured breaths before placing the book down and closing his eyes.


	51. The Italian, X

**The Italian, X**

His hand ran over the sheets, smoothing them out as he sat on the edge of the bed. There were no signs of what had occurred there. The room had been thoroughly cleaned, the old sheets removed and discarded. Still, he could feel it. This was were Sara had laid, where the physician had cut into her veins and attempted to remove that excess black bile that had been making her so sick, so melancholy.

He lay on the bed, his hand pressed against the sheets. His eyes remained open and for quite some time, he remained still, thinking. Could he exist without her? In body, yes, but would he, what made him who he was, still exist? Most of him would die, so who would it be that remained in existence? He'd been thinking about it a great deal, every night as he lay on that bed.

Now a ghost in his own home, he'd begun spending all of his nights at his cousin's, even those nights his cousin was home. The university had now moved to Pisa and though much of the humanist and language studies remained in Florence, he no longer had classes pulling him from her. Now he had all the time in the world to stay and watch Sara slowly die before his eyes.

He wiped away the tear that escaped his eye and sat up on the bed. The room seemed to be suffocating him and he found he could not remain in it when his only memory of Sara in that room was watching her get cut into, seeing the blood seep from her chest. The image of the pain and the fear in her eyes was still so vivid, so haunting. He could not banish those eyes from his memory, nor could he forget how those eyes held his the entire time.

Gilberto stood quickly and threw on a robe. Stealing softly from his room and stepping lightly, he quietly made his way to the library. His hand pushed on the door, slowly opening it and his slid in, closing the door softly behind him. He watched his steps, looking down at his feet as the floor creaked below them. Feeling as though he was not alone, he lifted his eyes and met a set of others, staring at him in the dark.

"Sara?"

She smiled softly and turned her head to glance back out the clear-paned window to the street below. He approached slowly, kneeling before the window seat. "What are you doing down here?"

Sara shrugged. "I could not sleep."

He nodded, smiling softly and taking a deep breath. "That seems to be my problem as well."

Sara's face remained on the window, her eyes staring out into the dark. "It's so quiet at night. No signs of life."

Gilberto closed his eyes. He tried to remain unaffected by her words, but there was a moment where a sob rose and died in him. He opened his eyes again and studied Sara. Her face was so pale in the candlelight. She bore all the signs of her illness conquering, extreme fatigue and pallid features that she'd tried to disguise by wearing softer, lighter colors. Gone were those vibrant colors of her healthy days, the crimson gowns and emerald dresses that would have stood out in stark contrast to her now ashen face. She'd moved onto pastels, light colors like the light green nightgown she wore that night that allowed her to hide her illness. Yet hide it, it did not. The illness was still so present. The venesection hadn't shown any signs of working. Sara's body had grown weaker and more wane, and yet, yet she was still so beautiful.

He rose slowly from his knees and sat next to Sara on the window seat. Following her vision and looking out at the stars, he allowed himself a few glances in her direction to find her eyes very much fixed on the night sky. There was a soft, wistfulness to her gaze. "Do you," she began softly, pausing for a moment, "think that heaven is the way Dante imagined it to be?"

Gilberto was silent, thinking about the question. He gazed at the stars and then at her. "I hope not."

Her eyes moved to his and he watched as they narrowed with her thoughts. "You hope not?"

He shook his head. "No, I hope Dante was wrong. If paradise is a place where we are all stars, in separate circles, in separate orbits, I don't want to go there. Sure, we would create a symphony and we could look upon the great apostles and upon God, but I'd rather be in a place where my loved ones were, where we could interact and touch and feel each other."

"Touch requires our earthly bodies."

He sighed. "Yes, you're right, it does, but feeling, the way I mean, to feel one's presence, requires the soul."

"You don't think that Dante's paradise would allow that, to feel the presence of your loved ones?"

"No, not really, not if we were in separate circles. His visions of hell and purgatory and paradise are so rigid, one person going here for one thing, another getting placed somewhere else, all dependant on their sins and their virtues. Even if all one's loved ones made it into paradise, it would be no guarantee they would be together, be in each other's presence."

"But Dante was able to be in Beatrice's presence. He was able to gaze upon her in heaven."

He thought about gazing upon Sara in paradise. Though the vision of Beatrice grew in radiance, he could not imagine Sara more beautiful. And then to see her and have it taken away? "Alive, but for the rest of eternity? We don't know. She took her place among the stars and his place could be elsewhere. I would want to be in a place where I could be with my loved ones forever. It would be their presence that would matter the most."

Sara was quiet. Her eyes fell to her lap. He caught her hand and held it, pausing before he could speak. The words came out softly, almost beneath his breath. "If my place amongst the stars was different from my loved ones, I would rather be in limbo. Eternity is a long time to be separated from the one you love."

Sara looked up, her deep brown eyes observing him. He watched her, studying her, searching for an answer in those eyes. "Is that why you've been reading Dante, Sara? To get a glimpse at what comes next?" She was quiet and his heart ached for her. "Darling, Dante isn't meant to be read so that we can glimpse into the afterlife. It's meant to be read for the language and the poetry and the beauty. We read it to feel inspired."

"I know that, I do," she cut in. "It's just, it's hard not to think about the afterlife and what it may be like when…"

He understood. His eyes, uncertain, peeked out at her. "What do you think?" he asked softly.

She paused and took a deep breath. "I think…that while Dante's paradise would be very glorious, it would be very isolating."

"You wouldn't want to go there?"

Sara smiled and shook her head. "No, I like your idea of heaven better. I want to feel God's presence, but also the presence of those that I love."

He squeezed her hand and brushed his thumb over the back of it. "Yes," he agreed. "I can't imagine an eternity without them." Left unsaid was that he couldn't imagine an eternity without her.

They were both quiet, laying their heads against the glass and staring out. He felt Sara pull her hand from his. He lifted his head and glanced at her to see her still staring out the window. "Vittorio wants the physician to bleed me again."

Gilberto's head fell backwards and his eyes closed. "When?"

She never responded. He looked up to catch her shrug. "I told him I did not want that. We had an argument about it."

His eyes widened. He was torn by wanting her to do anything possible to get well again and by fearing it would only be the cause of a great deal more unnecessary pain. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to go through that, to watch the blood trickle from your chest and hope that it would cure you. The image of her being bled haunted him and he wondered if he were strong enough to witness it again. Still, if there was a chance…

"Have you though about it?"

"It's all I've thought about," Sara snapped. "What else do you think I've been thinking about? Vittorio pleaded with me to try it again. Do you think I have not thought about that?"

He winced. He hadn't meant for it to sound so dismissive. "I'm sorry." He reached for her hand but she pulled it away and wrapped her arms around her midsection.

"Sara…" he started before pausing to take a moment to collect his thoughts. He spoke very slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Vittorio loves you. He wants to do whatever it takes to make you well again." His voice died off in a whisper. "We all do."

"It didn't work," she cried. "Nothing has worked. I'm tired of the herbs and the diets, the changes in my regimen, the pastes that make me nauseous. I don't want to feel the pain of somebody cutting into me again. I don't want to have to watch more blood seep from my body!"

"Sara…"

"I'm dying, Gilberto."

He stopped, mouth open, wide eyes staring at her, silent. She'd voiced the words he was afraid of, the words he could not face. His heart clenched in unbearable pain and he found he could not breathe. Sara was weeping before him and he had absolutely no understanding of what to say. How could he speak when he could not even breathe? He watched her in pain and in anguish and his own multiplied.

Sara wiped her tears. "It's time," she whispered. "It's my time."

Frozen in inaction, in intense pain, he stared while she wept. With her tears, her breaths grew short and she began to cough. He pushed himself from the window seat and kneeled by her side, helping her to lean forward and supporting her while she continued to cough. One hand rubbed her back lightly while the other dug into the pocket of his robe and retrieved a handkerchief. He lifted the handkerchief to her mouth, holding it against her lips until her coughs subsided. When he removed the cloth, he glanced down at it, horrified to see that it was covered in blood.

He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket, hiding it from Sara's view. Shuffling on his knees so that he could face her, he studied her, heart aching at the sight of her flushed face contorted in pain. His eyes fell to his pocket where her handkerchief rested and then lifted back to her face. "Sara?"

"Perhaps I should lie down," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

He nodded and helped her to stand, but she was either too weak or too faint to do so. He lifted her into his arms. "Where do you want to lie?"

"Sofa."

"Not your bed?" he questioned and she shook her head. He nodded and carried her the few yards to the sofa, laying her gently upon it. Glancing around, he found a blanket and placed it over her, tucking it around her. "I'll send for the physician."

"No, it's alright. It will pass. I only need to rest."

He looked dubious, but he was unsure of what the physician could do for her now, so he decided to respect her wishes. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Can you stay?"

Gilberto nodded and sat down in his usual chair. Leaning forward, elbows upon his knees, he positioned himself to watch her all night.

*****

He rubbed his eyes and stretched, glancing at Sara still asleep on the sofa. The light of the day streamed into the windows and bathed her pale figure. Some time in the night, he must have drifted into sleep. His back was sore, his neck cramped, and his foot was asleep. He stood up, shaking his leg to wear off the effects of dozing in the chair and waited until the tingling and numbness left his limb. As he waited to be able to stand on both feet, he stared out at the light streaming in through the windows, wondering at the time. Quietly, so as not to disturb Sara's rest, he tiptoed out of the room and into the hall.

"Good morning Gilberto."

He spun to see Isabella behind him, a slightly amused expression lighting her face.

"Good morning."

"Would you like some breakfast? I can have someone make up a tray for you."

He smiled. "Please, and see if they can prepare something Sara can eat."

"Of course."

"Is Vittorio up?"

"Yes, he is up and gone for the day."

Gilberto furrowed his brow. Vittorio had left and he and Sara had remained undisturbed. "What time is it?"

Isabella narrowed her eyes. "Time? Why it's nearly ten o'clock."

His eyes widened. He was not sure what time he drifted off, but he'd slept a lot longer than he first thought. Shaking his head, he followed Isabella to the kitchen and waited for a tray to be made up.

He carried the tray into the library, the items clattering together noisily with his steps. When he backed into the library, pushing the door open and stepped towards the sofa, the plates and utensils rattled loud enough to cause Sara's eyes to flutter open. He watched her lift her head and glance at him. "Hello," he whispered, smiling softly.

"Hello."

"How are you feeling? Can you eat anything?"

She shook her head. He placed the tray aside and turned back to her. "It's here if you get hungry later. You should try to eat something."

Sara sighed, nodding. He watched her glance at the discarded tray and then back at him, raising an eyebrow. "What about you. Are you not going to eat?"

"When you do."

"Gilberto, no." She coughed, more blood collecting at the corner of her mouth. Her voice came out in a rasp. "Please eat."

He couldn't. He couldn't stomach the thought of food when Sara was lying there, so ill. At the look in her eyes, he decided to try anyways, but found himself pushing the food around his plate. Finally, he pushed the tray aside. He stared at the tray, at the food neither could eat and turned back to her. "Can I get you anything?" The request was almost pleading. Sara shook her head.

How helpless could a man feel? Sara had no strength, no appetite. He wondered if she could even read without it tiring her out. However much he wanted to help her, he could not think of anything he could do. He felt so inadequate. He needed to do something. "What can I do for you? Do you want me to read to you?"

Sara shook her head softly, and then stopped. "Recite to me? More of your sonnets?"

Gilberto nodded, his vision watery as the first few tears collected in the corner of his eye. He sat in his chair, cleared his throat, and began to recite the words he'd long before written for her.

He remembered every poem, every verse, speaking each word softly as each was meant to be said, out of adoration and love, out of wonder. Sara was quiet beside him, eyes closed, but by the sound of her short breaths, not asleep. He kept on reciting. After some time, he paused, taking a moment to study her, the line of sweat upon her brow, the uncomfortable expression on her face, the way her chest rose and fell in uneven jerks, the sound of the shortness of her breath and the way her eyes fluttered open and closed as though she was fighting off sleep. He moved from the chair to the edge of the sofa, bending over her to place a hand upon her forehead. It was hot to the touch and he pulled his hand back quickly, his eyes fixing on the perspiration that had transferred from her brow to his hand. He glanced at the door and then sprinted through it.

"Isabella," he shouted frantically, "send for the physician right away!"

He watched the young woman nod and hurry away, her eyes wide with fear. Moving back into the library, he kneeled by Sara's side, his fingers falling to her brow, gently pulling away the hairs stuck there.

"Sara?"

She stared up at him, her breathing still uneven and short. Tears formed in his eyes. "Let's get you into your bed, darling." He stood and lifted her into his arms, holding her to his breast. Carrying her through the halls, he nudged the door to Sara's chamber open with his foot, crossed the room and placed her gently on the bed. Pulling back the sheets beneath her, he helped her under the covers, tucking her in before drawing a chair to her bedside. He grasped her wrist, his head falling forward, and he began to weep.

Sara's wrist eased from his hand. He did not look up, not until he felt her fingers beneath his chin, tilting his face to hers. Those same fingers drifted to his face, and she was cupping his cheek. Without thought, his head turning into her hand on its own accord, unaware of what he was doing, he brushed his lips upon her palm, kissing it softly. Her thumb came over his lips and then her hand turned, the backs of her fingers gliding down his cheek. His eyes closed at the tenderness of the moment.

Opening his eyes again, Gilberto leaned towards the bed. He lifted his hand, bringing it to the space of air above her cheek, pausing, hesitating, not letting that hand fall, afraid she would again catch his wrist and keep him from touching her. Hand in the air, so, so close to her, frozen in that space, he watched her. She was staring up at him, lip caught between her teeth, her brown eyes wide, waiting. Breath caught in his chest, he slowly brought his hand down, cupping her cheek. His other hand came up to swipe the tears from his eyes and when they were a little clearer, he looked down to see Sara still watching him, her gaze piercing his.

His thumb slid softly over her brow, repeating the motion again and again. He continued to gaze down at her, trying to read her eyes as they stared up into his. Her breaths were still so short. His thumb continued to brush, the only soothing motion he could seem to give.

"Would it…" Sara whispered, pausing and wavering. Her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. "Would it be too great a transgression? Would it cause too great an injury?"

He stared at her, trying to decipher what it was she was saying.

"Would one kiss hurt?"

_One kiss. _He swallowed, pursing his lips and closing his eyes to stop from sobbing. Would it be a great sin, to chastely kiss the one he loved? For, it would be chaste because his love was pure. Would it injure? One kiss before dying? Could God forgive them this one? She was dying and he yearned to feel those lips upon his own just once. If she wanted one kiss, one last moment of comfort, he'd send up a million prayers to help her get through purgatory faster. He'd take on the guilt of his weakness and her dying effort to cling to life in some way and claim it as his sin, his cross to bear. One chaste kiss was all she asked of him, one more item to add to his guilt, but something he could hold onto forever.

Lips still pursed, eyes still closed, tears on the verge of escaping and falling to her face, Gilberto shook his head. He opened his eyes. His tongue slid over his lips. Slowly, he lowered his face to hers. The kiss was soft and short and chaste and sweet and it left him yearning, but he pulled back, tears rolling down his face. He took her hand between his, gazing down at her and her own tear clouded eyes.

Sometime later, after her eyes tired of staring at him and fluttered closed in sleep, the physician arrived. He watched as the doctor roused Sara, asked soft questions and listened to her breathing. Gilberto held his breath as the physician stood, shaking his head and suggesting he send for Vittorio and do whatever he could to make Sara comfortable.

Not long after the physician left the room, Gilberto must have drifted into his own slumber, for he woke to Sara's fingers on the back of his head, combing through his hair, curling and uncurling. How tired he must have been, he thought, to have nodded off as Sara had. He stared at her, faintly noticing her labored breathing. In his drowsiness, all he could focus on was her eyes and the feel of her fingers in his hair. Returning more fully to wakefulness, he thought of how amazingly in love with her he was, and how overwhelmingly it ached to be so.

It continued on for some time like that, Sara drifting off and waking, though Gilberto never again joined her in slumber. When she closed her eyes for the last time, he knew, deep inside, she was never going to open them again. The breathing that had been so labored, stopped. Her chest ceased to rise. He'd been witness to it all, unable to look away. Though the observation left him in anguish, he'd been transfixed by the sight of it. He'd watched her take her last breath. Then, as the vision of what he saw and what it meant filtered into his mind, he wept. Her hand still tucked in his, he lifted it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. Their hands dropped, landing beside her hip. His head followed, falling to the bed beneath their hands. He could not let go, nor could he stop weeping. The feeling of absolute loss that his students had expected of him after the death of his wife came into realization that afternoon as his tears soaked into the sheets below.


	52. The Italian, XI

**The Italian, XI**

The funeral was an elaborate affair. Vittorio, ever the artist and ever the man about Florence, spared no expense in creating a final tribute and interment for his wife. He had a sculptor friend design and build Sara's tomb, creating an intricate and detailed piece of art, but for Sara, perhaps a little too much. Clare's tomb had been simple and elegant; Sara's was a sight to behold, decorative, crafted with an artist's hands and…showy. Somehow, Gilberto felt it didn't suit her, but rather was more of an expression of Vittorio. Reflecting on the woman he knew, the lover of the land and of beauty, he concluded that she did not belong in a tomb at all. Sara would have chosen something closer to nature. Now, with the choice out of her lifeless hands, the decision fell to her husband. Instead of being returned to the earth, she would forever be sealed in a marble chamber.

The extravagance did not end with the crypt. The entire ceremony was elaborate, from the food brought in, to the number of people attending. Sara's funeral, because of Vittorio's prominence, drew in many gatherers. There were so many people there. Family and friends, artists and scholars, had come to pay respects. The de Medici's had come. Gilberto found himself getting swallowed in the throngs of people attending the funeral mass. It was uncomfortable, to be in such deep mourning with so many people about. Stealing away into a corner, he found himself only grateful that the number of people offering their sympathies to Vittorio kept his cousin from seeking him out. Vittorio was too busy to notice his absence and Gilberto, too guilt plagued to make himself known.

Hiding until it seemed safe, Gilberto watched the crowd, feeling so numb and so heartbroken. He wanted one more goodbye and the crowds had kept him from being able to say it. When the waves of people migrated away from Sara's tomb, he drifted towards it, staring through the entrance at her beauty in death. How lovely she was. How mortal she was. A few glances from friends mutual to the Rosetti's were cast his way, the same solemn looks that had been directed at Vittorio all afternoon, but Gilberto ignored them. He stepped carefully inside the mausoleum. Tears pricked his eyes as he gazed at Sara, finally at peace. Did she, could she ever have known how precious she was, how much he'd treasured her, how profoundly he'd loved her and how tenderly he always would?

*****

In the days and weeks after the funeral, thoughts of escaping the city and moving to Pisa to teach in the newly opened _Studio fiorentino_ trickled through his mind. Florence, once so alive, had begun to feel so empty without her. The change though, wasn't in the city, but in him. He no longer went out, remaining at home, not wanting to face the vibrant city when everything in him felt so hollow and so barren. He could not cope with the life around him, shutting himself in his study, away from everyone, even away from his faithful housekeeper, Christina, who had begun to care for him from a distance. He shunned Vittorio's attempts to contact him, to reach out to him, instead choosing to live out the rest of his days grieving in quiet solitude.

Those days were spent writing, his pain flowing onto the pages, verse upon verse, couplet after couplet. The anguish and the loss left him with a thousand words he would never make public, but would write down anyways. He needed there to be a history of it, something concrete to say to the world in the years after his passing, that he was a man deeply affected by love and by the loss of that love. He wanted a solid article to show how wonderful a person Sara had been and how much she was loved. He needed to create something he could look back on and remember, a piece of evidence for what he was feeling and when. So, he wrote. He could not stop. The ink flowed from his quill as he fought to keep some connection to Sara through his words. The pace of his writing grew frantic, as though he'd never have enough time to let every thought, every emotion out. And, when he didn't write, when he tired himself out far too much to continue writing, he prayed. He pleaded for the forgiveness for his weakness, silently asking God to spare Sara the punishment.

Once a week, he did venture into town, faithfully attending a Church service despite the questions plaguing him regarding the Church. His faith in the church was waning, as he could not reconcile the actions and words of the church with his own studies in humanity. Though he was plagued with guilt, he could not reconcile how a just God could punish such a pure action as the brief meeting of his lips with Sara's. The words of the Church brought no comfort him, offering only samples of damnation. Perceiving himself as an individual, his faith turned inward, prayer in the home outweighing the importance of prayer in the Church. Despite his misgivings, that deeply held love and belief in a loving and forgiving God did not cease. There had to be a higher order of being. Sara's existence was a miracle. He loved her sensually, passionately, but purely as well, conflicting desires bound within him. He did not doubt that her soul was linked to his, nor that the unity of those souls was of a divine nature. And so, out of habit and out of caution he attended Church as he always had, staring at the place in the pew she always sat, asking that God would not separate those souls.

Getting too and from Church in the city he once loved became something of a chore. The weekly walk to the church directed him past the usual lively and animated debates amongst Florentine street scholars. A year previous, he would have delighted in the sight, listened to each word being said with amusement and pride. Now, the words of the orators sounded muffled, blended together, pockets of noise disrupting a quiet walk. He pushed past the gathered men, finding sanctuary in the quietness of the Church, in the beauty of the paintings and the art of the shelter. Perhaps, maybe, it was the quietness of the Church that still drew him in.

He strode briskly, winding through the usual crowds of people, ducking through them in an effort to reach the church in a hurry. Stepping inside, he found his way to his pew, glancing over where Sara once sat before closing his eyes and letting the quiet calm him. There was a baptism that morning. A child was entering the kingdom of God and for a moment, he could almost picture Sara beside him. He could almost feel her hand slip into his. He got lost in his dreams, in his imaginings until the priest came around flinging holy water onto the congregation. The water hit him hard like a slap, splashing him out of his revelry. He was still on this earth. Sara was not.

Stumbling blindly home, his breathing heavy, he was ignored the calls directed at him by his cousin. He moved on, numb, falling forward with each step. Faintly aware of a hand on his shoulder, he stopped and turned, his stare hollow and vacant, looking right through his cousin and scarcely recognizing him. Turning back towards his home, he shook off the weight upon his shoulder and continued on, leaving his cousin, hand hanging in the air, to stare after him. He could see nothing, hear nothing, focus on nothing but the dull ache in his chest. In the recess of his mind, in the place where he was still somewhat cognizant, he wondered how his heart could still be beating.

Arriving home, he moved straight to his sofa, laying upon it and closing his eyes. He slept, letting the day pass and not waking until Christina's hand stirred him. He sat up, rubbing away the sleep from his eyes. "What is it?"

"A package arrived for you." Christina handed him a long and wide, thin package, wrapped in brown paper. Then, she disappeared, leaving him to stare at the package.

Slowly, his hands tore away at the wrapping, leaving him to stare at the sketch beneath it. _Sara_. He knew at once Vittorio had drew it, having captured the stillness and quietness and subtleness of Sara's beauty once again. For a long time, Gilberto just sat, holding the canvass in his hands and gazing down at it. His eyes moved across it, taking in each feature, each of Vittorio's brush strokes, each subtle nuance Vittorio was able to capture. His eyes flickered over to the wrapping and it was then that he noticed the letter attached to it. Reluctantly, he placed the canvas beside him and pulled the letter from the wrapping. Opening the pages slowly, he began to read.

_Gilberto,_

_I have been trying to reach out to you for what seems like weeks now and alas, this is the only way I know how to do it. You have closed yourself off to the people who love you. I love you cousin and it hurts to know how you suffer. I know your guilt. I know how you loved Sara. I know that you believe it is more than a courtly love. I also know that it was more, far more._

_We have known each other our whole lives. Could I not have known how you loved my wife? I saw the longing and the desire that rested within you, just as I saw the purity of love within you as well. If I write too much of this, forgive me, for this letter was not intended to add to your guilt. I just want you to know that I knew and I accepted it, so that some of your guilt may be eased. Your love for Sara was deep, beyond anything I've ever seen or felt before and I want you to know that it is alright. How amazing it must feel to love someone like that and to have that person love you just as much in return. How tragic it must have felt to have that woman married to another, to family, to a man I hope you also love._

_Sara loved you. She loved you with everything that is within her. I know you that you would scarcely believe it, but I'm asking you to trust me. Sara longed for you as you longed for her, felt the same guilt at loving her friend's husband, at loving you more than her own husband as you did loving her more than your wife. I know she loved me, just as I loved her, as a faithful companion, a husband and wife, and scarcely anything more. In your pain and haste, you once shouted that it was my name she whispered in sleep. Gilberto, could you not possibly know how many years and how many tender and chaste touches it took for the familiarity of me to enter her slumbering thoughts? You could not possibly know how many times I've watched her sleep to hear your name pass from her lips. If Sara whispered my name, it was born of the familiarity and comfort of a certain touch, and not of longing and love._

_Sara was too good and virtuous a woman and you too good and virtuous a man to act on those feelings, or even verbalize them. You've confessed that you kissed her just before she died, but that does not diminish your virtue. Sara was given to me, but belonged with you. How unfair it must have felt for our parents to have chosen Sara for me and Clare for you. Had it not been for your honor, your acceptance of your fate as Clare's husband, I like to think that I would have stepped aside to let you marry Sara and taken Clare as my wife. Know that this was not because of poor conduct, or that I loved Clare as you do Sara, for I have never known that love. I only know that I could have made Clare happy, just as I've tried to do for Sara. I could have grown to love Clare as I grew to love Sara. Clare was a beautiful woman, a good and faithful wife, and perhaps I could have been as good a husband to her as you, or perhaps better, showing her the love and tenderness you could not, but that she deserved. Clare knew, but in the gentleness of her soul, accepted herself as your wife and not your love. _

_Again, I'm sorry if my choice of words is poor. I assure again I am not trying to add to your guilt, but even as I write this, it appears as if I am so. I only mean to say that I could have been happy with Clare and happier still to see you with Sara. It would have given both you and Sara what you so richly deserved and that was each other. The love you held for each other was inspiring, far from being the shadowy, guilty yearning I know you believed it to be. Sara loved you so, Gilberto. Her eyes were always bright when you were around. One spoken thought and you could make her glow as I never could, one look at you and she would sigh as she never sighed for me, one touch from you and she shivered in a way that made me weep with longing, not to have her shiver from my touch, but to just once know that kind of love._

_That kind of love, I still have the opportunity for. You don't. That once in a lifetime love, that meeting of souls in earthly bodies, for you, it has already happened. Knowing that, should Sara die, you would never again have that opportunity to know or realize her love, I tried to give you her last months. A part of it was selfishness, and cowardice, of not being able to cope with watching her die, but a part of my decision to take de Medici's patronage and leave Sara in your hands was so that you would have some time with her. I wanted to give you moments, or rather, give her moments. If she had to be taken so prematurely, having only been given twenty nine years, I wanted her to know and feel that love you held for her before she died. She deserved it, deserved to spend her final months and weeks and days with the man she loved. I know my decision often angered you, but I hope that those days offered you something to hold onto until you can see her again. I am not a strong man. I am filled with too much pride and I can be self-seeking, so know how much I loved the two of you to swallow my pride and release myself from my wife so that you could spend those days together. I am not asking for thanks, for I know that my decision caused as much pain as it did comfort. I only ask you not to hang onto that anger you held for me when I seemingly abandoned her. I did, in a way, abandon her, and though I do concede that yes, while a part of it was weakness and cowardice and selfishness, I also did it for her and for you. Please forgive me._

_I love you cousin. I want us to be a comfort to each other, to remember each other as we were growing up, as close friends. I want us to remember Clare and Sara together, to remember their virtues and their affections and not look back with guilt or regrets, but with fondness and love. Remember those six months where you took care of and comforted her. Remember how softly she smiled when she saw you. The sketch of Sara is my gift to you. I drafted it after watching the two of you converse one afternoon. Lost in each other, neither of you were aware of me watching and sketching. Look at it and know how deeply she loved you._

_Please, I ask that when you read this, call on me or allow me to call on you. Please do not let us lose more than what is beyond our control. You are my family, Gilberto, and I cherish you._

_Vittorio_

He placed the letter down and fell back against the sofa. His hand ran over the canvas and he traced the hint of gentle laughter in her smile. Standing, he moved to the window, to his own clear-paned glass, and he looked out the window at the street. Remembering Sara's window, her link to the city and the outside world, he watched for signs of life. Florence was still alive, still moving and flowing, still breathing as Sara had once uttered. It was her city. He could not move away. He could not leave her city, the city she loved so much, the city that contained so much of her. Resolute, he would stay and continue to teach in Florence. Perhaps later that evening, he would take a walk through the square. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he might just be able to feel her beside him.


	53. Interlude: The American, IV

**A/N: **Thank you again to everybody who has read and who has reviewed the fourth life and the story so far. I'm sorry about the delay in getting this up, but this next life was not one of the ones that I had originally envisioned, so I have been working it around in my head, trying to figure out what I want to do with it. Unfortunately, it is still not wholly conceived, so the updates for the next while might come in sparingly. I will try to get them up as quickly as possible, but I do want to make sure I take the time to work this all out first. Thank you again. The reviews have been beautiful.

**Spoilers: **_Leaving Las Vegas, Redrum, Meet Market, Law of Gravity, & Leapin' Lizards _

**Interlude: The American**

**_Las Vegas, 2007_**

The letter remained in her grasp, her fingers gripping it as she glanced out the door and into the hall. There was almost a sense of disbelief at him writing it, bordering on bewilderment, and at first she wasn't sure of what to make of it. The letter was lovely and poetic, even if the poetry was borrowed. Why hadn't he sent it? He'd sent the cocoon, so why not the letter? Had he felt too vulnerable when writing it? What was it about them that made what felt so right so very difficult? Her eyes glanced over the letter again, seeking her answers in the letter, wondering why neither of them could ever really express just what this all meant, what each other meant.

Things had been different since Grissom's return. His way of expressing things to her had changed. Before he left, especially in the month before, he'd been struggling to speak, as if situations were dependent on words. And, she mused ruefully, conversations between the two of them, when of a personal nature, were never their strong point. Grissom's constant search for words just before he left made things feel strained, more so by the announcement that he was leaving for the East coast. It had cast a shadow over their second Christmas together, making the Christmas feel as tentative and uncertain as the first. The Christmas that should have felt like home and warmth became filled with careful words and attempted reassurances. It was at Christmas that he told her of his decision to take a sabbatical, leaving her to once again feel insecure and unsure of the relationship they had. She had needed to know where she stood and, needing that, she vowed to speak to him when he came home, when emotions weren't so raw and the hurt wasn't so fresh.

Only, when he returned, they didn't speak, at least, not about him leaving her for a month. One look at him, her vow was all but forgotten. The hunger in his eyes and the way he made her feel so wanted, so desired, put all thoughts of talking aside. She'd attacked him as soon as he entered the front door, so desperate to feel him again, forgetting about what happened on his first shift back and causing him to forget as well.

When they did speak, it was about Catherine and Keppler and the lab. They spoke about the deception, both Catherine's and later, her own, having been impelled into it by the circumstances and the other members of the team. They did talk about his sabbatical, but in terms of how it went for him, the classes and how refreshing it was for him get away from death and to teach again. They never spoke of their time off, those hours that should have been spent with each other, but were spent thousands of miles apart. Even though the separation had been painfully hard and very much hated, she remained quiet. She didn't bring up how his absence made her feel and for some reason, that was okay, because he'd returned and hadn't cast her from her life. He'd embraced her, desired her, looked at her as though he'd never seen her before or couldn't see enough of her.

Since he'd returned, there had been a shift. He'd abandoned the constant search for words and had begun expressing himself in other ways, dropping hints in conversation from time to time, spending more time with her, or rather, asking her to spend more time with him. He gazed at her more, touched her more, subtle brushes of the hands or his fingers grazing along her arm at work, and at home, at his townhouse, holding her more, approaching her from behind, pressing himself into her and lightly grasping her arms. While that yearning to hear him express how he feels would always be there, she didn't need it. His inability to express himself to her was a part of him and she loved him, all of him. Perhaps he'd tried in the letter, and felt he failed. Perhaps that was why he hadn't sent it. Perhaps he was afraid to be left so vulnerable. It didn't matter.

Standing, Sara let the letter fall to the bed. She moved into the hall, searching to find where he'd disappeared to, wanting only to be in his presence. Peeking into his office, she found him hunched over his desk, examining some photographs. A soft expression and a tender smile played over her features as she watched him from the doorway. It was nice to have a moment to just stand and watch him, to observe him working without his notice, to very nearly see the wheels turning in his brain. Watching him always left her in awe and as much as she liked to know what was going through his thoughts, she remained quiet. In that space of time, it was enough just to be near him.

* * *

He could feel her lingering in the doorway. She hadn't said anything yet and he wondered if she would. He placed the photograph of his lab office down and turned to her. "Hey."

Sara smiled, stepping into the office. "Hey. You haven't begun the model yet?"

He shrugged. "I was just about to begin erecting the walls."

She walked towards him, standing beside him. He turned his chair back to his desk to follow Sara's gaze. His hand lifted and fell to the small of her back, his fingertips absently running up and down as she leaned forward and peered at the base of the model.

"Your office floor." She leaned in further, fingering the photos of his office. "Anything I can do to help?"

He sighed. He loved working with Sara and having her help him, but aside from building the miniature so that he could hunt down supplies and suppliers, he was also building it to understand how meticulous one had to be to build these models and to attempt to catch a glimpse of the workings of the serial's mind. He needed to do this alone. He shook his head. "No."

Sara stood up. One hand fell to his shoulder, while the other reached down to lazily scratch Hank behind the ears. He smiled softly at her. "Thanks."

She nodded. Her hand left his shoulder but he could feel the touch lingering. He half stood, shuffling his chair around so that it was facing her. The legs scraped against the floor as he sat, still moving the chair around. His hand landed again on her back, softly guiding her to stand between his legs. "Is the movie over?"

"I didn't finish watching it. I decided to turn it off before..."

He smiled. "They used the oxygen destroyer on him, yeah."

She smiled softly in return. "Yeah."

"What are you doing now?"

Sara shrugged. He gazed at her, taking in her features. She was so beautiful, and hovering so near him. His hand moved over her waist, tugging her in. The other moved along the side of her leg, the denim rough against his hand. "You know, honey, I can do this later."

"Gil, no. I didn't mean to disrupt. I'll just watch."

He raised an eyebrow and began to study her, the way she was looking down and rocking back and forth on her feet. Her sway brought her leg in contact with his fingers before it moved the other way and left only the a space of air between them. She wasn't looking at his work, nor was she moving away, but remaining between his legs, swaying on her feet, her back leaning into his touch. He furrowed his brow, worry growing on his features. "Sara, is something wrong?"

She shook her head, but her eyes were still on the floor and not on his. It did not alleviate the concern. He eased her backwards, standing up, his hands gently grasping her arms. "Are you sure?"

Sara's eyes did peek up at him, as though she forced herself to look at him. "Yes…why?"

"You seem different."

"Different?"

"Than before…earlier."

There was a soft ghost of a laugh and Sara's arms were around him. He drew her in, holding her against him. Her head fell against his shoulder. One of his hands rose to softly run over the top of her head, stopping once it hit the ponytail. He didn't know what to make of her mood or the way she just held him. He did know, that if something was wrong, he didn't want to let go. Keeping her near, he pulled himself gently from her arms, only enough to look at her. Gazing at her, his fingers played with the loose strands of her hair. With the tips of his fingers still holding onto those strands, he leaned forward, softly kissing her on the cheek. He leaned in again, intent on kissing that same spot when Sara turned her head and caught his lips with hers. She kissed him hungrily, and his hands fell to her waist, pulling her tight against him.

The feel of her hand on his shoulder, pushing slightly against it. She stepped back, out of his arms, until just his fingertips, still reaching forward, rested on her sides. Catching his breath, he looked up at her with a puzzled expression. Her hand gripped and released his shoulder; her thumb ran over the shoulder blade. She gave him a half smile. "I should let you get back to work."

All of his breath left him once again, as he stood, stunned by her actions. The feel of her hand on his shoulder lingered, though the hand had now dropped to her side. He watched her turn to the door, still trying to make out her funny mood. She was hesitating in the doorway, not turning around and it perplexed him even more. Thoughts of work abandoned, he stepped towards her, grasping her just above the elbows and running his hands softly up and down until they rested back in the place where they began. He wanted only to turn her gently and try to nudge her into talking to him, but when Sara leaned backwards into him, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind.

He could feel the tips of Sara's fingers padding across his arm. They grasped at his hands, playing with his fingers. He closed his eyes, allowing Sara to play with his hands, still wondering what she was feeling. "What is it?" he asked softly.

Sara's fingers continued to play with his. Patiently, he waited for an answer, but none came forth. "Sara?"

"It's nothing."

"Honey…"

"Really, Griss. I just wanted to watch you work." Her fingers moved along each dip between his, softly grasping at each of his digits. "Watch these hands work."

Grissom lifted his hand from her fingers, studying it. "These hands?"

"Hmm, I love your hands." Sara attempted to turn in his arms, but he held her still with one arm still wrapped firmly around her. He thought about her wanting to watch him work, just wanting to spend time with him and his heart lurched. At that moment, he just needed to be near her. "Sara?"

"Hmm?"

"These hands aren't going back to work this afternoon." He placed a soft kiss on her shoulder, just beside the strap of her tank top. Sara's light gasp had him smiling against her skin and putting off any lingering thoughts of talk.

Stepping back slightly, he released her and let his hands graze down her forearms, before allowing them fall to her waist. Gently, he eased her back against his chest, placing another kiss on her shoulder. His fingers inched over her stomach. Her head fell forward as she let out a soft moan. Dipping his head forward, he began placing light kisses on the nape of neck. When Sara pressed back into him, he began to trail open mouthed kisses into the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her shiver had him inching up her tank top so that his hand could rest on the skin of her abdomen. His heart pounded against the back of her shoulder. Sara's weight seemed to drop against him and he held his palm to her stomach, holding her up and steadying her. He could feel her bicep brushing against his cheek as she reached back over his head, her fingers finding his hair, combing through it and gripping at the strands. "It's not fair," she gasped, squirming in his grip, and he grinned into her shoulder.

"What's not fair?"

Sara turned herself in his arms and kissed him deeply. His hand hovered over her back, not touching as he gave her the room to drag his sweatshirt up over his head. With the sweatshirt discarded, he leaned in, kissing her again, delighting in the feel of her palms on his chest, warm through the cloth of his t-shit. He wished he were younger, or had better knees, so that he could scoop her up into his arms and carry her to the bedroom. He settled by breaking the kiss and taking her hand, leading her down the hall.

He began kissing her again in the doorway, backing her slowly into the bed. His fingers pulled at her ponytail, removing the elastic so that he could run his fingers through her hair. Sara's hands were on his chest, running up and down his t-shirt, not tugging, but tracing over the material. He closed his eyes when he felt her hands run over his shoulders, holding on and pulling him down with her onto the bed. Breaking the kiss, he waited until she had scooted up onto the bed before crawling over her, holding himself above her with his arms.

All he could seem to do was stare down at her. Her hands were still running lightly over his chest. She stared up at him, breaths coming fast, wide, curious eyes watching him. He gazed at her, waiting for his own breaths to slow, wondering at the mystifying woman beneath him. He didn't know how it was he could still react to her the way he did, nor did he understand how he could have the effect he had on her. He only knew he was immeasurably grateful. Dipping his head down, he placed a soft kiss on her lips before lifting his head to stare at her again.

Going slow, he continued the soft pecks to her lips, gazing into her eyes as his head fell for each kiss. Sara pushed herself further back onto the bed and he followed, dipping for kisses as he crawled above her. Knees taking some of the weight off his arms, he let one hand travel to her waist, pushing up at her hem so that his thumb could brush over the soft skin of her hip and the dip of her navel. He glanced down at the skin he'd exposed and his breath hitched. He dipped forward, kissing her deeply as his hand slid under her back to help her back up the rest of the way onto the bed. Still kissing her, he crawled forward, moving the hand that was beneath her to the strap of her top, brushing it over her shoulder with a touch so light he could feel his fingers tingle as they passed over her skin. He looked up, his fingers hovered over her collarbone, watching her stare back up at him. Dropping his hand back the bed so as to brace himself better, he felt something beneath his palm, crinkling.

Grissom gripped the paper, glancing at it as he moved to toss it aside. His hand stopped in mid air as his eyes caught a glimpse of his own scrawl and the words he'd written for her while he was at Williams. He knew what had caused Sara's odd mood. Hovering above her, he froze. His eyes moved back to her. "Sara…"

He remained immobile above her. He didn't know what to say. She'd found the letter where he attempted to say the things he should have in person. He wanted to know what she was thinking, and at the same time, he feared it. Sara was so quiet and a part of what he loved about her was the mystery within her silence, despite how uncomfortable that silence could sometimes feel. Suddenly, braced above her, he felt uneasy. All of his blood seemed to have rushed to, and accumulated in his head. Dizzy, he closed his eyes, swaying slightly as he struggled to speak. The letter had been an attempt to put thoughts into words, to give Sara a hint of insight into how he feels, when how he feels is beyond expression. He'd failed, in the letter, to really express anything. The words he'd attempted were beyond overdue, and he realized, were better expressed in person. He should have told her at Christmas, a time that was supposed to feel like warmth and love, but only felt like loss as he had chosen that time to tell her of his sabbatical. He'd thought that if she saw they were spending an intimate Christmas together that she would understand that he was only trying to get away from Vegas and not from her. He should have expressed his feelings then, but had struggled to do much more than offer hollow sounding reassurances. The words would have been better said before he left and before he opened the door to her insecurities. It had been getting past his own that had been the real obstacle. Now, perched above her, he wondered if he could ever find a way to tell her.

It was, partly, a problem with language. How could he speak when there weren't words to express his love for her? Language was invented as a means of communication, and just like every other invention, it was imperfect. He could use every word in the dictionary and still come up short, feel inadequate. The words couldn't reach far enough to express the intensity of his feelings, the joy and the pain, the fear, the ache...the profound happiness that all came with loving Sara. Without her ability to become a part of him, to be inside him, feeling what he is feeling, she could never know how far his love ran.

He'd wanted to tell her, or at least attempt to. It had been at the forefront of his mind on his trip home. But then, he saw her, dirty and smelly, slightly flushed, beautiful grin and he could only think of how much he'd missed her and how much he wanted her, despite the pungent stench left in her wake. In his spare time at Williams, all his thoughts had been of her. He'd been lonely for the first time in his life, aching to hear her voice or see her smile, to touch her skin. All those years spent knowing he could care for her, he'd never understood just how much he did. He'd always loved her, but only now did he realize that the strength of his love was exponentially greater than anything he'd ever felt before, those other presumed loves only a mere fraction of what he felt now. Sara was his center, a magnetic force that held him. She was the reason, the answer and the unanswerable question. She was, to him, what words could not express, the very limits of language.

A very long return shift, struck by tragedy, and filled with the responsibility of having to comfort a friend, had allowed him to calm himself and pushed his thoughts back to sitting down and talking to Sara. He'd returned home, though, only to have her maul him the moment he stepped in his front door. With Bob Dylan's "I Want You," playing loudly over the speakers, Sara had heaved him up against the wall, kissing him recklessly and stripping him of his cloths with a pace so urgent and so frantic it left him little choice but to fall blindly into her. He'd wanted her then, as much as she, him, but the her actions were filled with so much desperation, it created a sadness in him, wounding him. It was only as the song changed over to "Lay Lady Lay," that he'd been able to slow the pace, and show her that it was not just about want or desire, but something more, something so infinitely greater. They still hadn't talked.

"It's okay."

Sara's voice was soft, bringing him back to the present. He opened his eyes to see her lips turned slightly upwards, that forced half smile adorning her face. Her fingers were curled around his collar, lightly grasping it, the backs brushing over the dip in his neck and he wondered how long he'd been hovering above her, mouth open, struggling to speak.

"Gil," she probed, drawing his eyes to hers, "it's alright, okay?"

It wasn't. She was the measure of his life and he could not continue to make love to her without her knowing. He could not repeat what had happened on his return, when he allowed his desire and need for Sara to distract him from the disquiet that had been pressing upon his heart. Sara's body lifted to kiss him, but he turned his face away. He let out a sigh, shaking his head and pushing himself off one arm to fall onto the bed beside her, silently bemoaning his failures. He pushed aside his desire for her, ignored the tightness in his jeans. She had to know how he felt. He had to find a way to tell her. She shouldn't have had to find out second hand, through a letter he hadn't been able to send.

Sara's fingers grazed lightly over his arm. "I love you," she spoke softly, breaking into the silence.

Grissom closed his eyes. It was so simple, those three little words, and yet, hearing them pass her lips for the first time, made his heart burst and ache simultaneously. Coming from her, the words, despite being just words, meant everything. He wanted to repeat them to her, so badly, but he couldn't. Coming from him, he still felt that they wouldn't mean enough, convey enough. They were spoken so lightly by so many people before them, and though he felt the weight of them when she spoke them, they were still not enough.

He turned on his side, facing her, needing to say something, but his mouth only opened and closed in quick succession as he did his best inadvertent imitation of a guppy. There was so much he wanted to share, needed to share, and if he could just find a place to start, she was in for a lifetime of it. He'd tell her everything until he'd exhausted every story, every thought and every relevant word in the dictionary. It would take a lifetime to explain to her just what she meant to him.

Sara's thumb flitted over his eyebrow. He stared at her as she smiled tenderly and leaned into him to place a soft kiss upon his lips. Smiling again, she pushed him onto his back and slid down the bed, resting her head on him, just below his ribcage. He watched as her legs curled around so that she was lying on the bed sideways, curled towards him, returning his stare with a penetrating stare of her own. He reached down and let his finders glide through the strands of her hair. Her fingers curled and uncurled over his chest. They began dancing slowly upon it, absently tracing invisible patterns.

"What was it like at Williams?" she asked, quietly.

He stared down at her, knowing she wasn't asking about his classes or the observed behaviors of the Walden Pond swamp mosquito, but of what it was like without her. He took a deep breath. "Quiet," he spoke softly, "cold, but a refreshing kind of cold. I could breathe over there."

Sara nodded, looking away and attempting to hide the hurt and he knew he was messing this up. His fingers continued to glide through her hair and he continued, recognizing that this was his chance, his beginning. "There was a fair bit of snow and lots of clouds, dark and grey in the evening sky, but on a clear night, I could see the stars." He paused, turning his gaze up to the ceiling. "I didn't have to drive out of town to see them, or escape the garish lights of Vegas. I only had to look out my window or step outside. There were so many of them and they were so brilliant." He smiled softly, moving his gaze back to her. "I thought of you."

He watched as Sara's face lifted back to his and he shrugged, still smiling softly. "I thought about you often…always, in class, in the tiny apartment the Dean had put me up in, on the pond where Thoreau had canoed and observed insects and played with loons, but when I saw the stars, that, above all else, was what I really wanted to share with you." He paused again, pursing his lips in thought before quietly speaking again. "I missed you."

The words trailed off into silence, and for awhile he only stared down at her, his fingers still playing with the strands of her hair. There was a small tear in the corner of Sara's eye and he reached down to brush it away.

"I know," he began, gazing down at her, "that I made the right decision in taking a sabbatical and getting away from Vegas…" Sara's face dropped away again, but this time he did not let her hide her pain. His hand moved to her chin and tilted it back up. "But, the cost of that was being away from you. It made me ache, more so because I know that it hurt you as well. I could breathe there, but I still felt something essential was missing, something that kept me from really, truly feeling alive. I longed to have you beside me, breathing with me. There wasn't a moment when I didn't want you there with me."

His hand fell from Sara's chin as she shifted, turning onto her stomach and placing her forearms on his chest. She pushed herself up on her arms, resting upon them. His hands lifted to her shoulders and glided down her arms to cup her elbows, gazing down at her as she stared up at him. "I'm sorry."

Sara shook her head. "No. It was hard and I absolutely hated being away from you, but I think I understand."

She leaned forward, lifting herself off of her arms and pivoting on them until her mouth was above his. He reached up, his fingers cupping her neck and drawing her toward him. He kissed her softly and pulled her into his arms, turning their bodies so that they lay on their sides, jean clad legs entwined, locked in an embrace. He hadn't been entirely successful in conveying his feelings, but it was a start. He wanted to make love to her then, to feel her and be a part of her, but even more, he wanted the strength of his words to outweigh the strength of his desire. They would make love when they woke, but at that moment, he was content to hold her and drift to sleep with her breath fanning his neck and her hand upon his heart.


	54. The Bohemian, I

**The Nine Lives of Grissom and Sara: The Fifth Life**

**The Bohemian, I**

_Of Guilbert and Sarah_

_**Pardubice, 1604**_

_The Holy Roman Empire in the midst of the Scientific Revolution and the Revolution in Astronomy. Emperor Rudolf II has made Prague the seat of his empire, drawing astronomers, scientists, alchemists and artists to the city, making Prague the height of culture in Europe._

She always liked the darkness, the way it was able to hide the outside world and let her imagine a life beyond her own. Each night, she would spend hours perched on her window ledge, staring out into the night.

There was a figure climbing out onto the roof opposite hers. Though the absence of light made it impossible to distinguish any features, she knew, from several past observances and the way he moved, so very carefully, exactly who it was. From her window, she gazed, as she did nearly every night, at the quiet, mysterious young man who had captured her imagination. There, with bated breath, she watched as he pushed himself up from the ladder, lifting his legs and swinging onto the roof, the tilt of his head first towards her house, and then, to the sky.

Sarah sat silently, listening for the sounds of her parents asleep, focusing on the snores coming from the room beside hers. She glanced toward her sister's bed, watching as her younger sibling sighed and turned, curling onto her side and pulling her blanket with her. Sarah took a deep breath and slipped from the window, grabbing hold of the vines that lined her house. Slowly, she crawled down, pushing off and jumping down from the last section. She cast a quick glance in each direction and sprinted across the street.

The house opposite hers, flat-roofed and three levels high, was something of a boarding house, the owners having let out a majority of the rooms. Guilbert, she knew, had the top room, a small dwelling, nearly an attic, furthest from the door and the heart of the house, the one room nobody would need to pass to get anywhere. Climbing the tall, narrow building, sandwiched in between two others, would be an impossible task had she not previously discovered the trick to it and tested it time and again. In behind the neighboring house, a building two levels high, there was a tree that could be climbed to the roof of the building. From the roof, she could move to the ladder resting against Guilbert's own building and climb it onto his roof.

On her trip up, she paused below his window, picturing him jumping from his window to the roof. It was so very convenient that both buildings had the rare flat roof, allowing them to navigate one to climb onto the other. She stepped onto the ladder, ascending to the top, where, holding onto the ladder, she paused, and allowed herself to watch him for a brief moment.

He was so beautiful and so unknown, so quiet and contemplative. She wondered briefly, how a man so intelligent could have so few words. Her father could scarcely find occasion to refrain from them. It was perhaps that which she loved most about the boy, the stillness of him, the quiet assurance, the stoic and brilliant young man, whose words, when called for, could strike daggers into those who challenged him. Oh, he had the ability to speak and to articulate, his thoughts, his beliefs, his vast caldron of knowledge, just not his emotions, not with her, never with her.

She sighed and climbed onto the roof. His eyes flickered towards her, causing her to smile softly. He didn't say anything; he never did, only lie on his back, his hands cradling his head, and gazed up at the sky.

Sarah moved to lie beside him, copying his pose, resting her own head in her hands. She could feel the heat of him along her side and she yearned to know what that heat would feel like pressed to her.

"What are you doing up here?" he asked softly after too much time and silence had passed.

"Hmm?" she breathed, still caught up in the heat along her side and the scent drifting off him towards her. "The same as you, I suppose."

"You shouldn't be out alone at night."

She smiled. He said the same thing every night.

"Your father…"

"Is asleep," she finished, waiting a moment and sensing his frown. "I'm not wandering the streets. I'm here with you."

It was silent again and though not uncomfortable, she fought for something to say, but was afraid to break the stillness of the moment. She shivered and shuffled towards him, only slightly, wanting the heat of his body to seep into her and warm her. She glanced towards him and up at the stars again.

"It's incredible, isn't it?"

"Hmm," she breathed in agreement, afraid to turn and look at him.

"All of those stars, the brilliance of them, the magnitude, it makes me feel so small. I wonder, with all of those stars out there, how we can believe we're at the center."

She nodded, her stomach in knots. It was quiet thoughts like these that drew her in, the reverence he held for that which was beyond them, his tenderness and the way he was able to accept her as worthy of his thoughts, trusted and placed in her care.

"Centuries ago, the ancients first speculated on ideas we are only recently just beginning to explore. Pythagoras first said the earth was round, twenty-one hundred years before Magellan proved it true. Aristarchus of Samos contemplated the Copernican model eighteen hundred years before Copernicus. So much time spent moving backwards before we could find our way forward again."

Sarah could not help but to smile softly. A few more words and she could imagine spending an entire night like this, in awe of both the night sky and the quiet way he spoke of it. She followed his movements, the raise of his arm, his hand, the point of a finger, all directing her eyes to something in the sky, a constellation or a shooting star, the dim outline of the new moon, and Venus, looking like another star in the heavens but able to be revealed by him.

He turned on his side, pointing at something beyond her, but the brush of his arm against hers, the press of his chest into her shoulder, his breath on her skin, had her holding her own breath, unable to move. She let the air out, watching as his eyes turned down to hers and she could only look at him, unable to turn away, too late to pretend she'd been looking at where he last pointed. He shifted and his breath was no longer on her skin. She waited, still staring up at him, watching him shift again and release the breath he'd been holding. His hand, still pointing to the sky beyond her, fell to her waist, the touch causing her breath to get caught in her chest once again.

His fingers brushed over her, so light, his eyes on his hand, so full of wonder she wanted to cry at the reverence of it. Slowly, his head drifted down, his lips touching hers and she wondered if this was what lips felt like, or could only his feel that breathtaking? Knowing that he'd been the only person to ever have her body tremble from proximity, she knew no lips could ever feel like his.

All too soon, the touch of his lips on hers was gone and she missed it immediately. She opened her eyes, not remembering how they came to close. He was still there, staring down at her, his breath upon her face, his fingers upon the cloth covering her body.

* * *

He stared down at her, startled by how he'd leaned down to kiss her and even more startled by how that brief touch had affected him. His breaths were quick, the release of them visible as the air pillowed before him in the cool night. His heart beat fast. She was staring up at him and he wanted nothing more than to dip his head back down and kiss her again, but he couldn't. Fear clenched at his heart, holding him above her, leaving him unable to do anything but stare.

She was too amazing, her intelligence and the way she was able to see all of the patterns he spoke of despite only having been educated in theology and language. She was wonder and intelligence combined, a fast and eager learner, gifted in her ability to grasp the math and science problems he shared with her. An unconventional girl, an unconventional beauty, delicate but tomboyish, slightly awkward like he, yet completely charming, slim, lacking curves, but stunning none-the-less. She was hurried and still elegant. Her sideways smile tugged at his heartstrings. In a word, though she could never be described in just one, she was bewitching. When he looked at her, weights hung from his tongue, lifting only enough to allow him to speak of the world outside their own, outside the little haven they'd been building in the year since he came to live across from her in Pardubice. And there was so much he wanted to say.

His eyes drifted down to the hand on her waist. His thumb had been brushing back and forth. Sighing, he lifted his hand and fell onto his back. His eyes closed, squeezing tight as he lamented his inability to speak. Opening his eyes, he stared up at the sky, waiting for her to speak, to yell, to reprimand or to question. She did none of those things, remaining silent beside him. Her hand took his and he marveled at it. Her fingers, so slim, entwined with his. Her thumb brushed over his palm before wrapping around his hand and the feel of it left him yearning. He chanced a glance at her and his heart was in his throat. Turning his eyes back to the sky, he put off the fight for words not coming and instead let the beauty of the night sky, the wonder of her and the awe of the moment overtake him. Two sets of eyes staring as another star fell from the sky, he held her hand in silence.


	55. The Bohemian, II

**The Bohemian, II**

Crowds of students surrounded him as he made the walk through the corridor, inching through people, clutching the letter in his shaky hands. He should have told her the night before, days before, but nerves had overtaken him. As he maneuvered through the throngs of people, he briefly stopped to question whether he was making the right decision. He quickly pushed away the thought, knowing he was vulnerable yet firm. She needed to know and he was about to take one step closer to telling her.

Guilbert hadn't planned on staying that long in Pardubice, certainly not the year he had spent there. He'd been wandering since he was a young boy, city to city, town to town, pursuing all the knowledge and beauty he could find. Coming from Crakow, Poland, where he had been attending University, his plan had only been to stay in Pardubice long enough to earn some money before setting off again. He'd obtained a temporary position teaching mathematics and astronomy at a local seminary school and had stayed on despite his plans to move on to a city of more cultural importance, back to Crakow, perhaps, back to University, or possibly onto Prague. He'd wanted to continue his studies, finding that while Pardubice was an important city in its own right, it did not contain those opportunities he sought. He would have moved on earlier, but something had held him back. He had met Sarah.

He could remember few times he'd been inspired beyond measure, at his home as a boy in Nymburk, a small town with none of those opportunities he now sought, but open and beautiful, the first place to reveal the night sky to him, to reveal his life's work, as a student in Crakow, hearing of Copernicus's theory and finding reason and logic in it, and finally, in meeting Sarah, finding a kindred spirit in a girl with eyes of fire and a challenging mind. He hadn't been able to leave Pardubice without knowing her.

With cautious steps and the phantom feel of her lips still lingering on his from the night before, he approached the room and knocked, holding his breath as he heard the short voice on the other side bid him entrance. Slowly opening the door, he stepped inside. Sarah's father looked up at him, annoyance crossing his features. "Yes?"

He stood there for a moment, clutching his letter in white fists, not afraid of the man himself, but fearful of how the man, staring at him with something just short of pure hatred, could determine his future. It was no secret that Sarah's father held nothing but disdain for Guilbert and his teachings. A theology teacher at the same school as Guilbert, Sarah's father was a stern and serious old man, devoutly religious and very protective of his family. Every argument Guilbert had made for progress over the past year had been countered vehemently by Sarah's father, who chose not only to attack Guilbert's arguments, regardless of their validity, but the young man himself. Still, Guilbert sought him out, hoping that the possible happiness of the man's daughter would outweigh the man's scorn.

After moments of standing there, the old man's eyes on him, burning into him, and he knew he would fight for this, just as he had everything else. "Sir, if I could have a word with you?"

The old man waved his hands around impatiently before looking back down at his work, ignoring Guilbert. Guilbert, not to be put off, closed the door behind him and found a seat close to the old man. "Sir," he began, trying to speak as respectfully as able, "I've come to speak to you about your daughter."

"What about her?"

He winced at the offhand way Sarah's father spoke of her. He stood fast, knowing he had to say quickly what he wished to stay before his nerves got the better of him. "I'd like your permission for us to marry."

The old man lifted his head and sneered at Guilbert. "You?"

"Yes," he spoke as if it was the most obvious response in the universe.

"No."

"Sir…"

"What of your family, Guilbert, do you even have one?"

The remark came across as snide and the maliciousness of it angered Guilbert. Nonetheless, it would do him no benefit to lose his temper. In a very even voice, hinged with the speck of sadness he could not hide, he responded, "My parents are both dead sir."

"And what would it benefit me to marry my daughter to a man, a vagrant, with no ties?"

"Sir, please," he paused and knew he had to challenge the man head on, not get caught in the old man's games. "What would you do with ties?"

The question caught the old man off guard, and it caused Guilbert a moment of satisfaction. A pious man could make no argument against it. Personal ambition went against the fabric of Christianity. The meek shall, after all, inherit the earth. Sarah's father had professed that proverb time and again. After a moment however, the old man collected himself. He waved his hand dismissively again. "It is of no importance anyways."

Guilbert frowned. "I don't understand."

"It would not matter your family or your money, Guilbert. I would not allow my daughter to marry into an ungodly home."

His temper, which he had been successful in keeping in check so far, had begun to boil up within him. "Ungodly?"

Sarah's father, sitting across from him, remained the picture of calm. "Tell me, Guilbert, are you still teaching the profane theory of a sun-centered universe?"

"Sir, you know that I am teaching Copernicus's model. I don't believe it is profane."

"It's blasphemy."

"How?" The man's suggestion enraged him. His voice, which had risen on the first word, fell back down. He looked at Sarah's father, studying the old man. He began to speak in a very even, reflecting tone. "If we believe a force to be greater than our own, to believe God to be greater than us, how could it be profane to believe a force to be greater than the planet we live on?"

"Spoken like a Hussite."

Guilbert shook off the venom in the old man's words. He stared at the man, willing his temper to remain within his control. "I am a Catholic."

"You, young man, are a knave."

"I, sir, am as honest in my beliefs as I am in my love. I love your daughter and I believe she loves me."

Sarah's father scoffed. "Love? What does a simpleminded girl know of love? I will not let you poison my daughter with your offensive teachings. The naïve girl would believe your words and banish her soul to hell."

Naïve? Sarah? He could scarcely believe Sarah's father's words, so dismissive of her intelligence. He stood, with mouth open, ready to strike back.

"Sarah would have many suitors, all better than you, Guilbert."

His eyes closed. Of that, he had no doubt. Sarah held a curious allure and any man who could see true beauty would find it in Sarah. Guilbert's hand moved up to his hair, combing through it as he attempted to think of one last argument and make one last appeal, but Sarah's father began before he could. "If you were to give up your teachings…if you were to embrace the earth-centered fact of the universe and teach only that…"

Guilbert's head shot up, his eyes flying open. Surely the man could not be asking him to dismiss his beliefs in exchange for Sarah's hand. He could not do that, despite his love for the young woman. He could not quit himself as a man, betray all that he believed in for anything, not even for love. It would betray his love and his self. An ache filled his chest as he struggled to come to terms with the choice given to him. "Sir, I cannot do that. I cannot go against what I believe to be true." As he spoke, he could feel the anger rise, not to be contained. "If it proved false, I would gladly admit my error, but until then, it is something we need to explore. Until the answer is found, I will stand by my belief that earth does, in fact, revolve around the sun." He stopped short, stared at the old man, and began again, more calmly. "I will not deceive myself or my students by teaching what I do not believe in. How could any man ask another to do such a thing?"

"Then you do not love my daughter as you profess to."

"Sir, I love her with all that is a part of me and more." He spoke quietly, solemnly. "I love her with my whole being, but I will not betray my beliefs." He stilled, quiet, thinking about how it was tearing him apart to have to choose between truth and love when both were found within her. He knew that to betray his beliefs, to stop his pursuit of the truth, would eat away at him and mar their chance at happiness. At the same time, he could not bear to lose Sarah. "Please, give your daughter the choice. Let me ask her for her hand, and if she accepts, bless us with your permission to marry."

"Get out. Stay away from my daughter."

The old man's voice rose. Guilbert could see the power this man yielded, the attention the students must give him when he launched into sermon. He wondered briefly, why the man hadn't taken up the cloth. Sarah's father stared at him, but Guilbert said nothing, only returning the old man's stare.

"Get out!"

"Sir…"

"I will have you up on charges of heresy before I will allow you to marry my daughter!"

Guilbert stumbled back, the force of the old man's words striking as strong a blow as any club. Normally he could stand face to face with a man and win any debate, letting the truth and knowledge guide him, but this time, his opponent was not a man who would listen to reason. The old man would not listen at all; he would twist works and biblical passages and meanings to fit what he wanted to believe and that made Guilbert's fight next to impossible. He could fight a charge of heresy, but he would never be able to convince the old man to let him ask his daughter for her hand.

"Leave!"

He turned, dejected, and slipped through the door. Walking home in silence, he stared at the letter still wrapped tightly in his clutch and had another choice to make. He had the opportunity to move onto Prague and study under Johannes Kepler. He'd wanted to take Sarah as his wife, to take her on all of his travels, but had that dream quashed. He wondered if he could leave her. This was an opportunity too great to pass, and without hope of Sarah, what could hold him in Pardubice? What could hold him anywhere? He needed to get away from the pain this city brought and move on to a city where the quest for truth was thriving. He needed space to think, to decide what was most important to him, what he needed his life to hold. He believed he needed it to hold her. Perhaps time away would give him clarity, allow him to discover if he could live without her. If he could not, it would give him time to prepare himself for another round of battle with her father. Perhaps it would give Sarah's father time to open his mind and allow for other truths to enter in. Perhaps, it would give him time to prove or disprove the validity of Copernicus's theory so that it would cease to become an obstacle in his pursuit of Sarah's hand.

* * *

He sat on the roof in quiet contemplation, his thoughts running through his mind at breakneck speed, giving him a headache the night air did little to soothe. He could find little inspiration in the stars that night, and instead focused his eyes beneath them, across the line of the roofs in the distance.

A quiet clang of the ladder had him breaking from his thoughts. He turned to his side, watching as Sarah's head peeked up over the roof. He stood quickly, not prepared for the sight of her, nor for the sight of her tears pooling in her eyes. She rushed to him and he pulled her into his arms, sinking down to sit with her on the roof. He held her in his lap, cradling her in his arms, breathless at the thought that she was actually in his embrace and that she belonged there. Her warm tears fell to his neck, sticking there. He tightened his arms about her. "Sarah, what is it?"

She shook her head, furrowing into him. He kissed her shoulder, running his hands down her back. "Sarah?"

"Father says I am not to see you again."

He nodded. He had expected that. His hand came to the back of her head, running over her hair in a soothing motion, holding her head to his shoulder. He kept her in a tight embrace, trapping her hands, which had been gripping at his shirt, in between their bodies. There was so much he wanted to say, to tell her. He longed for the ability to express how he felt for her. How could it be so hard when only that morning he'd expressed some of it to her father? The words would not come. He could do little but soothe her tears with soft hums.

There was one thing he needed to say, something that he could not put off. He pulled back to look at her. "Sarah?"

Her tear filled eyes glanced up at him, waiting.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

He felt her try to scramble from his eyes, but he held her to him, not letting go. "Sarah, listen."

She stopped struggling, but would not look at him. He sighed. I've been offered the chance to work and study under Johannes Kepler in Prague. I'd be working in Emperor Rudolf's court. I can't pass this up."

"You're leaving."

"For now."

Sarah scrambled to leave again, but he kept holding her to him. "Sarah, I have to go." He couldn't find the words to explain the reasons why, but knowing that saying nothing would only lead her to attempt to get away again, he held her firm, pressing a kiss to her temple.

She dropped her head, falling back into tears. He felt his own tears begin to sting behind his eyes.

"Why?" she whispered.

He shook his head, still unable to explain. He could not tell her the reasons, to get her hopes up only to have them dashed. He wanted to ask her to come. He wanted to take her with him, and while it was possible, he could not imagine stealing her away from her home and family and subjecting her to a life filled with uncertainty and poverty. It wasn't time. It needed explaining, yet he remained silent. He didn't know how to speak to her.

"I see."

She didn't. He felt her try to push away again and he wished he knew how he could get her to understand. Her hand pressed against his chest, and she half stood, twisting from his embrace.

"Sarah, don't go," he pleaded.

"I should ask you the same," she whispered.

He grasped her hand, pulling her back into his lap, holding her tight. "Please, Sarah." He wept and she cried. Slowly he lowered them, laying on his side and holding her to his chest. He pressed his back tight against her, clutching her quivering body to him, not wanting to ever let go. He listened for her tears to subside, keeping her warm and tight in his embrace. It was cool, but he would bear the chill to be able to hold her a little longer, to watch her sleep, knowing her slumber would not last long in the breezy night air. As he held her, he glanced up at the sky, knowing this was to be their last night on this, their kingdom on the rooftop. When she shivered, he pulled her in tighter, rubbing her arms to give her warmth, placing his leg over her two to give them shelter. His head fell to the crook of her neck. "I'll miss you," he whispered into her sleeping form.


	56. The Bohemian, III

**A/N: **Sorry, just a filler chapter, something to bridge Pardubice and Prague.

**The Bohemian, III**

The breeze whipped across his chest, the cold causing him to shudder and wake. Where had the warmth gone? His lidded eyes took in the dark and the stars just as his nose sniffed at the cool night air and he remembered that he'd fallen asleep on the roof, Sarah in his arms.

Sarah was no longer in his arms and as he sat up, a feeling of emptiness spread over him, the sensation one he'd never before experienced. He was both sad and full of reproach, distressed at having losing something that felt a part of him, as though it wasn't his fault, his choice. Sarah had woken and gone, having fled from his arms, and yet, lingering, the ghost of her scent, her touch, of her back to his chest, her bare arms against his. He could still feel it, smell it, as though she'd only just disappeared. His arms still tingled, the goose bumps still present, his hair still on end, the cool breeze having nothing to do sensation, nor with the numbness now settling over him. He wondered if he could still leave her, now that he'd held her in his arms, now that she'd seeped right into his being.

Sighing, he rose, brushing off the dust from his clothing. He'd done little to explain his leaving and she'd left him arms. It was time to go. Stopping for one last glance at the rooftop, he climbed down the ladder and through the window, slipping into his room. Quickly, he packed his little belongings into a bag, deciding it would be better not to wait until morning to leave. All his worldly possessions in a small sack, he opened the door to his room and tip-toed down the stairs. Outside, he stole a quick glance at her house before his steps took him down the street and westward on.

The walk down the road, drifting slowly as his thoughts battled within his head, was, mercifully interspersed with long periods of sitting as he was able to catch several lifts in carts and wagons that day. Tired, having covered several miles, he decided to stop for the night in Kolin, knowing it would be dangerous to continue in the dark. The road had stretched at every turn and an hour hadn't passed that he hadn't thought of her. He thanked the man who'd given him his last lift, both for the ride and the offer of shelter, but he wasn't ready to go in just yet. He'd rather sit out in the dark and let his thoughts drift to her once again.

He crept inside the man's house sometime later, laying to rest. Dreams of her outline in the dark, the soft smile playing on her face, shadowed, yet visible in the moonlight and he found he could not sleep. Still, he had shelter, and for that, he was grateful beyond what he could express. Slipping from the home early the next morning after leaving what he felt he could spare for currency on the man's table, he was on his way again.

Late that evening, after several more lifts from kindhearted travelers, Guilbert arrived in Prague. Weary after two days travel and the emotional upheaval of the day and night before his departure, he hobbled along the street, looking for reasonable accommodation, but finding it too late to make any inquiries. Instead, he wandered the streets until he could find an inn.

Spending much of his youth as a drifter, he'd spent many nights sleeping in some rather uncomfortable places, and, tired as he was, he was close to choosing a street corner to tuck himself into once again. It was not the thought of spending a night out doors that kept him dragging his feet along the street, but the knowledge of the people who preyed upon the night, petty thieves and prowlers, who would take what little he had and give him only a knife wound in return. It wasn't that he had much to lose, few belongings, but the stock of currency he'd been saving to rent a room and hold him over, was enough to keep his weary frame looking. When he finally came across an inn and was able to purchase a room for the night, he let the relief and the exhaustion spill forth, falling into a heap on his rented bed and plunging into a dreamless sleep.

The sounds of voices, of horses, of wheels squeaking as they rolled along the cobblestone, of bangs and clangs and a host of other noises alerted him to the time of day. Rubbing his eyes and then his sore back, he looked out into the busy street to see the sun almost directly overhead. He'd slept late. After taking the necessary time to clean himself, Guilbert made his way out onto the street, hoping to meet with Kepler and arrange a slightly more permanent accommodation.

Unlike Tycho Brahe, the previous empirical mathematician, Johannes Kepler was neither rich, nor able to offer Guilbert any more than modest pay and the opportunity to work and study under him. Guilbert was immediately informed that he may possibly have to find an additional means to support himself and Kepler had suggested reading astrology and crafting horoscopes for willing patrons. Guilbert quickly rejected the idea, believing he could find no truth in creating horoscopes or pretending to read the lives and future of others in the stars. Taking a moment to make some quick calculations in his head, he figured that with his savings and his scant wages, he would be able to subside for a short time. He was able to negotiate for slightly, better, but as he left Kepler's lab with a weary sigh, he knew he would have to find an additional means of support.

Carrying a bundle of Kepler's work on optics under his arm, Guilbert followed one of Kepler's assistants through Prague's busy streets. The young man, Jiri, was a few years older than Guilbert, had lived in Prague for a couple of years and had several recommendations, both for work and for a place to stay. They stopped first at Charles University, where the young man introduced him to the master. At the University, he learned that several men wanting to devote themselves to working under Johannes Kepler had split the teaching of classes in mathematics and astronomy amongst themselves. As the work was only used as means of extra income, they were quick to bring in any person proficient enough to teach the two subjects into their arrangement so that they could spare even more time for work under Kepler. The wages, split amongst the group of men would be slight, but a sufficient enough supplement to his other wages. In addition, the time commitment, split amongst the men, would be very little. He would be able to devote most of his time to working under Kepler.

Guilbert next followed Jiri to Jiri's home, a small, cheap boarding house with only eight rooms in total, six of them being rented out. The rooms inside were petite and minimal, but the cost of them was so inexpensive, Guilbert quickly halted his search for accommodation. He secured a room down the hall from Jiri, thanking the man for all of his help that day.

Disappearing into his room, he took a moment to really look around. The room, though slightly larger than the one he'd been occupying for the past year, was small and quaint and comfortable enough. It was sparsely furnished, with only a mattress and a small desk, but he did not require much more. Tired after the long day, he placed Kepler's work on optics on his desk, to be read later, and dropped all of his belongings on the floor. He laid on the mattress, his hand smoothing over it, and he thought back to three nights before, when he'd lain on the roof in Pardubice, holding Sarah to his chest. Closing his eyes, he let himself envision her, the lines of her body, the smoothness of her arm beneath his, the curve of her hip beneath his hand, the gentle swell of her stomach beneath his fingers, and the warmth or her that filtered through her thin nightgown. She was haunting him, the knowledge that he was so a part of her, that someone so beautiful, so a part of him, existed, haunted him, causing an ache so acute, he could scarcely move. His memory continued to taunt him, as visions of her swam through his mind, reminding him of all he had walked away from. The feel of her beneath his fingertips, though imagined, seemed so real. He could still feel her.

He did not sleep that night. When he did drift to sleep in the wee small hours of the next morning, he woke a short time later with his fist firmly wrapped around himself.


	57. The Bohemian, IV

**The Bohemian, IV**

A murmur, the occasional whisper, the not so occasional sigh, pencils scratching upon paper, the odd exclamation of delight, they were all sounds he began to associate with working under and assisting Johannes Kepler.

Guilbert was only one of a number of assistants, all working with quiet focus, quiet observation, assigned to small tasks that contributed to the larger whole. The work, while often tedious, was also interesting. When those minor tasks accumulated and he was able to see the shape of the work, how each one shaped the work and how the work shaped his thinking, his reason, he became fascinated. Kepler's insistence on absolute precision, on attention to detail, on utter care for each task, even the most trivial task, seemed aligned with his own, just as the planets aligned with each other. Guilbert felt that if the accumulation of those tasks contributed to an enhanced view of the larger puzzle, the monotony of those tasks was well worth it. With his focus on optics and orbits, it was easy to lose himself within his work. Combined with the easy distraction of his occasional classes at Charles University, he found himself measurably successful at blocking out thoughts of Sarah. It was in his home, in his quietest moments, when his thoughts were no longer consumed by work, that his mind betrayed him. At night, lying on the mattress in his small room, his every thought was Sarah.

Occasionally, when Guilbert was assigned to some mundane task at the bequest of the Emperor and delegated to him by Johannes Kepler, he found his thoughts wandering to her. Once there, it was difficult to draw himself back to the work. It was the ache created by those thoughts, those memories, that had him searching for a way to redirect his focus. In those moments, he let his propensity for observation lead him back to the room, the lab, the work. He would focus on the room, the whispers, the sighs, the murmurs, the lead scraping across paper, the frowns on the faces of his colleagues, and on Antoinette, the surprisingly young housekeeper who flitted through the lab daily.

Antoinette had captured his attention quickly, mostly because she sought it. She was beautiful and young, fair, genteel, and quite forward. Her attraction to him, her approaches, her offers could not go unnoticed. He wondered at her life, at the desperate way she tried to escape it, to marry out of it. Flattered as he was that she had set her sights on him when any number of young men in the lab would have gladly taken her as his own, he could do little more than admire her persistence. She was beautiful, certainly, intriguing, naturally, and he did feel the pull of the strings of minor attraction, but she failed to captivate him. There would only be one girl he would ever marry, and he ached at the very thought of her.

A pencil dropped, the gentle rap of wood on wood snapping him back to the present. The work before him, that insignificant request of the Emperor's, had once again allowed his thoughts to wander. He shook his head ruefully as he realized he'd let his mind drift to Sarah again. His eyes glanced down at the paper, the work given from above, the useless, pointless waste of time, and it did not make him want to return his attention to it. Instead, he decided to glance about the room again, hoping that to see others focusing on their work would help him to focus on his. It would be so much easier if the work he was doing was the same as what they were doing rather than for the indulgence of the Emperor. Sighing, he glanced about the room, knowing the sooner he finished that task, the sooner he could move onto another.

His eyes moved about the other occupants of the room, from Jiri, to the older, trusted, long time assistant, Stepan, to Kepler himself, finally settling on the dainty Antoinette. She was watching him, eyes soft and filled with longing. Guilbert sighed. He hated the thought of hurting anyone so he'd allowed himself to humor her thus far. He tried to be gentle without being encouraging. He was kind, but distant, showed no more interest than what was polite, hoping to delicately discourage her. She began crossing the room, causing his muscles to tighten, and then she was in front of him, her hand on his arm, making him acutely aware that his attempts at discouragement were clearly not working. For one moment, he almost wished she'd be even more forward so that he could just say, "no." It was too difficult to read her and react, to dissuade her and not hurt her when she never outright offered anything.

Jiri interrupted them before Antoinette could speak, saving Guilbert from having to find a way to deter her attention once again. He wondered, with no little amount of anxiety, how long before she gave up, or in an extreme moment of loneliness, he gave in. It had been a month since he left Pardubice, and the emptiness created by the separation from Sarah was weighing on him. He would return for her, but when? Before the portrait he had in his mind faded and the details blurred? At the moment, the portrait was still so clear, the details so vivid, but the feel of her had begun to fade. Did he imagine the softness of her lips? Did he imagine the smoothness of her skin? Shaking his head again, he quickly scribbled the remaining answers to the mindless calculations before him, handing the paper to Jiri and hoping it would placate the Emperor.

Jiri raised an eyebrow at Guilbert, his eyes full of mirth, a smirk on his lips and Guilbert felt a warmth rise to his cheeks. Embarrassed at having been caught with wandering thoughts and without focus, he vowed not to let himself get so distracted at work again. He rose, brushing past Antoinette and giving her an apologetic smile. Hurrying to the small room he boarded, he tried not to think of how uncharacteristically thankful he was that his work day was over.

Putting the humiliation of the afternoon behind him, he sat down at his desk, withdrawing a piece of parchment. As had become his habit every night, he began a letter to Sarah. His quill poised above the paper, he let out a long sigh, trying to understand how he felt about her, how empty he became without her, how he sometimes seemed so disconnected from his own life without her around. Away from her, he was trying to come to terms of what his life meant, what it could mean without her, if it meant anything at all without her. The letter began the same as all of the others, a space before her name, to be filled in with an appropriate, or rather, honest, greeting. It ended the same as all the others too, a struggle for words, lines where he tried to put his thoughts and emotions into words, an awkward sentence in flowing script, and a quote, trailing off into nothing. Sighing again, he placed the parchment into a pile with all of the others, thirty-two unfinished letters, all to Sarah, never sent.

He closed his eyes briefly, missing her and wishing he could communicate it. Every day, he was closer to returning for her, regardless of how her father felt. It took an enormous amount of willpower not to do so. Lying in bed at night, the memories of her were flooding his mind. The memory of her mind, her laugh, her soft skin or was that only imagined? He didn't know any more and that hurt more than anything. He let himself envision her as he remembered her to be, imagined or real, and he felt the pain begin to grow. His hand fell to his lap, dipping into his breeches, his touch tentative at first, and then more firm. He gripped himself, his fist tightening, his thumb brushing over what was remaining as he tried to ease the ache.

Squeezing his eyes shut, holding on and ashamed by what he was reduced to, he found himself wishing desperately that the pain would eventually ease. It was like that every night as he thought of her, dreamt of her, the ache of his desire growing, the pain of their separation accompanying it, the frenzied, desperate, awkward and mortifying work of his hand to release what was pent up inside of him and the confusion of it all, the confusion created by his responses to both the physical and emotional. He was still just a boy and hen he could finally understand it all, understand his wants and his needs, his desires, thoughts, reactions, emotions…his self, he could become a man.

* * *

Sarah bit back another look of disgust as she watched the back of the man disappear from her house. She could still see the toothy smile, the yellowing and browning of the old man's teeth. She could feel that lecherous smile still on him, just as she could still feel the way his eyes had groped over her figure. She shuddered, still watching him go, needing to see that he was disappearing, not to return.

The man was…an upstanding citizen, a devoted church go-er, pious, successful, and not to be forgotten, older brother to a man of the cloth...eligible…another in the line of men her father had been parading before her, all old enough to be her father.

This last one was the worst yet. His expression had been lewd…bawdy. His eyes had traveled over her as though he wanted to own her, possess her. She could see the power and control in them, the dominance and something else she'd yet to come across before, but, when combined with the lecherous smile, she would recognize as lust. The way he had looked at her, the power and undisguised control, left her cold and ill, nauseous. She shivered again as the memory of his finger traveling over her cheek, her chin, her neck, shoulder and arm returned and she wanted to recoil into herself, never to feel that scratchy, broken, ragged fingernail scraping over her skin again. Was that appropriate for a man hoping to court a girl? How could her father have allowed it?

She shuddered again, almost wishing for a return to the first few suitors her father had brought before her, the men who let their eyes wander, studying her with little interest, and then, without concealing their disappointment in her figure, or rather, lack of one, announced that she would do, all with a flick of the wrist and a tone that suggested they were doing her a favor. Though it hurt to be thought plain and barely adequate, the meetings with those first few did not, at the very least, make her feel uncomfortable, or disgusted, or leave her quivering with revulsion and fear.

Of the eight who'd been paraded before her in the long month since Guilbert had left, only one could have been thought acceptable. One had been kind and considerate, handsome and interesting, but she could never accept him as her heart was still, painfully in the possession of another. Could she wait this out until Guilbert returned, if he returned? He certainly never promised to return, leaving her uncertain and insecure. And why was her father so anxious to marry her off all of a sudden? Ever since Guilbert disappeared from Pardubice, there had been a line of bachelors invited over for dinners, and drinks and conversations where she was obliged to be present, but not permitted to be a part of. She felt on display, especially to those suitors who took a surprising interest in her unattractive, awkward, thin body, and more likely, in taking her virginity. The last few had been bad, but the one who'd just left, older than her father and in possession of a power and will that was terrifying, was by far, the worst.

"Absolutely not," she spoke loudly, leveling her father with a pointed stare.

"Sarah," her father bellowed, his hand raised above his head, "Reznik Lucic is the brother of an esteemed Bishop. If he comes to call, I expect you to treat him with respect."

"How could you offer me to a man like that?"

She watched her father's eyes narrow and his cheeks flush. His voice was low, but firm. "He is a good man, a widow, in search of a girl, a companion, to replace his deceased wife."

"After having no doubt been the cause of her death."

Her father's hand came hard across her face, the slap stinging and bringing unwelcome tears to her eyes. She had known she shouldn't have said it, almost as soon as the words were out, but she was so worked up, now shaking in anger.

"You will marry somebody! You have turned down eight suitors now. Perhaps it is time I chose for you. It is time for you to stop pining for that boy who lived across the road. He is gone. He left you. He is not returning, and has, no doubt, forgotten you and found a more desirable girl to pollute with his theories. It is time for you to choose a husband, a devout man, a man who has money and background, something to offer us, a man of the church, faithful to the church. You will cease to be a burden to me any longer and instead, serve your duty as my daughter and serve your duty as someone's wife."

By the end of the speech, she was seething in anger. Her duty as a daughter was to what? Marry the Bishop's brother, bringing status and position and perhaps, wealth, to her father in the process? "Is that all I am, some possession to be passed from one to another?"

Her father let out a short, mocking laugh. "That is precisely what you are, daughter. What else good are you? A woman's only real use is to breed, but what could you understand of that? You are a simpleminded girl, from the womb of your simpleminded mother." His voice grew serious again, grave. "I am trying to find you a good man to marry and you repay me with disdain."

"I am not marrying any of those men you've herded before me, nor any others you plan to."

"You are not marrying that boy, that heretic."

Her voice grew equally low. "Than I am not marrying. I refuse to."

There was a moment's pause before her father turned from her. "As you wish." He turned back to her. "I suggest you begin packing because your choice has landed you in a convent. You'll serve God if you cannot serve man."

Sarah stared at her father. "I won't."

"You have little choice in this, Sarah. Will you take Reznik Lucic as your husband?"

"No."

"Or any of the others?"

"Never."

"Then begin packing. I should think only a couple of days worth of cloths is all that is needed."

Her father turned from her again, walking away and leaving her to stand alone in the entrance to the house. Waiting for her father to be clear of the halls, she fled to her room, throwing herself into a seated position upon her window ledge. She stared out, across the street, to the boarding house and the empty room on top.

The uncertainty and insecurity had been heightened by her father's words. Tears stung her eyes as she thought of the pain and humiliation of Guilbert's departure. She thought she meant more to him. Hadn't his kiss promised something? She could remember his eyes pleading with her to stay, his last night in Pardubice. Had she misjudged the looks he gave her? How could he leave her? How could he walk away?

Angry and humiliated, she swiped violently at her tears. She thought she would have heard from him by now, but there had been no correspondence, no word, no promise, no indication that he thought of her at all. What was left? A life in a convent? No. Never.

Jumping off the window ledge, she was filled with a new determination. She would pack; she would leave, but she was not going to live in some convent, following a set of beliefs that were rapidly becoming outdated. No, she'd go to Prague herself. She could make her own living, working and studying mathematics. She was intelligent, gifted even. While she'd never been formally educated, apart from reading and religion, Guilbert had taught her all he taught his students. She had caught on quick, displaying her gift. She could have her own life, make her own way. The cloths were thrown into a sack as she became more and more resolute in her decision.

Packing finished, a few changed of cloths in a sack, she sat down on her bed. Her thoughts drifted back to Guilbert, at how he'd touched her so reverently, at how he'd held her. She closed her eyes, remembering his breath on her skin, hating how she loved him, hating how she could be so hurt and so humiliated and still be so painfully in love with him.

The following morning, she woke to a stinging sensation on her cheek. The side of her face grazed over the pillow, making that sting more acute. Her tears had been flowing through the night, and the rubbing of her face against her pillow had left her cheek dry and raw. Combined with her father's swift slap, her face was swollen and aflame.

She sat up in bed, her fingers coming up to lightly touch her cheek. One finger moved to the corner of her eye, where moisture still rested, stinging as it dried out her skin. There was a knock on her door and she glanced over to her sister's bed, surprised to find it empty. Sighing, she knew it must be late. Her distress the night before had caused her to sleep late. Rising, she moved to the door, opening it slowly and stepping aside so that Marta, a housekeeper at the seminary school, could enter.

Sarah loved both Marta and her husband, Jan, a groundskeeper in charge of taking care of the school's gardens. They were gentle people, Marta and Jan, full of kindness and warmth. Sarah fell into Marta's arms, letting the older woman hold her.

Marta guided Sarah back to her bed, sitting on it and tucking Sarah's head beneath her chin. "Your father has informed us that you are entering a convent. Jan is to take you. Are you ready to leave?"

"I'm not going to the convent."

Marta's chin lifted from her head. Her head tilted back to look at Sarah. "What do you mean?"

Sarah took a moment to answer, wanting to make sure that her voice displayed her resolve. "I'm not going to a convent. I am going to Prague."

"Sarah, what are you talking about? Jan has been instructed to escort you to the convent ten miles west of here."

"Jan will escort me to the convent, but afterwards, I will be making my own way to Prague."

Marta stood quickly, spinning to face Sarah again. "Sarah, what are you thinking?"

Sarah returned the stare with her own, determination set in her features. Her voice was calm. "I will not join a convent. I don't care what my father commands. I am going to Prague."

Marta looked stunned with disbelief. "You are going to disobey your father? What will you do in Prague? You'll end up taking care of some man, or taking care of several other men's bodies."

"I won't. I'll study mathematics, or get a job teaching it. I can't explain it, but the formulas and the numbers come easy to me. Once Jan drops me off, I will find my own way."

"Sarah, it is too dangerous. A woman cannot travel on that road alone. Have Jan take you."

Sarah shook her head. "When my father discovers that I did not enter the convent, I do not want Jan to have to answer for me. I want Jan to be able to honestly say that he dropped me off at the convent. I do not want my decision to come down on you. Jan is so honest, it would hurt him to lie to my father as much as it would hut him to betray me. He can't know."

Marta sat down again. "Then why are you telling me?"

She sighed. "I need a favor."

"What is it?"

There was a moment's pause. Taking a deep breath, she began, "I need men's cloths. You are right. A woman cannot travel that road alone. For my safety, I will disguise myself as a man. Can you help me?"

She waited while Marta sighed. "I'll sneak you some of Jan's old cloths. They'll be large in the waist and chest, but short in the stomach and waist, and they are in a bit of disrepair..."

Sarah smiled in relief. "That is fine. I will make do. Thank you."

"You'll need money. Jan and I have a little saved for our children's education."

Sarah's eyes widened. "No, I cannot ask for that."

"You'll need some. Moreover, I know that you'll repay it."

"I would, in spades, but still, your sons…"

"Sarah, I am not offering all of it, just a little to get you by."

Sarah hesitated. "What will you tell Jan?"

"That I lent it to a friend in need. It is not something neither of us has done before."

Tears welled in Sarah's eyes. The older couple was so generous. She wanted to refuse, but found she couldn't, not when Marta was so adamant. She silently vowed to repay her debt quickly. "A million times, thank you."

Marta nodded.

"And you will not tell Jan?" She glanced up at Marta, her eyes doing her pleading, waiting for Marta to respond.

Marta gave her a soft, solemn smile. "I will take your secret to the grave, Sarah."


	58. The Bohemian, V

**The Bohemian, V**

The wheels on the cart let out long, rhythmic rattles as they rolled along the gravel. She could hear the crush of the rock and sand and dirt mingling with the squeaking of the wooden wheels and the breaths of the horses pulling them. The left side of the cart hitched up suddenly, the wheel sweeping over a small boulder and the jerk of her body upwards caused her stomach to lift and drop quickly. She clutched her bag to her, holding it tightly and pinning it between her knees and body.

Sarah tried not to think of the goodbyes she'd quietly spoken earlier. She had been near silent, the weight of knowing that she may never see these people again. Her farewell to her father had been forced, now finally able to see that this man, so sanctimonious, had been possessive rather than protective. His piety, very real, had obscured so much for both of them in that she'd been far to forgiving in looking past his shortcomings, and her father, far too unforgiving when looking at hers. She wondered, briefly, how he came to have a family, why he never took up the cloth, when his devotion to religion and the church outweighed his devotion to his family, and she realized her answer was in her father's inability to forgive. He could not forgive Sarah for being a daughter and not a son. He could not forgive her for loving a boy whose beliefs differed from her own and he would banish her to a terrible marriage to a devout and pious man of his choosing or banish her to a convent as his revenge. How could he forgive a congregation their sins? Such understanding was beyond his capability.

Her farewell to her sister had been brief, hugging the younger sibling before tearing herself away. She worried for the little girl, but her sister was far more angelic than she, worshiped by her father as though the girl was his own Madonna, a symbol of goodness and purity. Her sister was the blind spot in her father's vision. She would be alright. If Sarah heard otherwise, if, in her letters, Marta even suggested anything, Sarah would return for her sister immediately.

When it came time to bid farewell to her mother, Sarah had hesitated and then threw herself into her mother's arms. Previously, she'd seen her mother as weak, but now she saw the strength within. She had been given insight into all her mother had endured, all of which her mother had protected both her and her sister. Her mother had been the strength, holding the family together. In realizing that, Sarah's tears had spilled onto her mother's shoulder as she clung to her mother's dress. It was only her father's stern clearing of the throat that had her reluctantly releasing her mother.

The left wheel climbed over another rock, tilting the cart once again and causing that same rise and fall of her stomach. She wondered why she felt so ill. Was it the road or was it the nervousness over her choice? She clutched the bag again, closing her eyes and focusing on what she had.

Marta had been honest in saying she would only be giving a little of her savings. The money was pittance, really, but it would help if she were to find herself starving. Along with Jan's old cloths, Marta had also snuck her some food, a loaf of bread, some fruit, some dried meat for her to snack on. If she ate sparingly, she had enough food to last her until Prague and perhaps another day or so.

Sarah chanced a glance over at Jan. He seemed so quiet and so calm. The wrinkles on his face were relaxed. There was a hint of a smile on his lips. Marta had kept her word in not revealing anything to him, for surely the kind man would be more anxious if he knew of Sarah's plans.

The cart jumped again, this time the right side leaping into the air. Jan turned to her, slightly sheepish, his silver hair flipped messily across his forehead from the motion of the cart. His grey eyes, though hinting at his embarrassment, were sparkling. "I'm sorry the ride is so bumpy."

Sarah shook her head. "No, don't be." She stopped, not knowing what else to say. Jan was always so quiet, so shy, a conversation killer, but she still felt at ease. She took comfort in his gentleness.

"The convent is just up ahead. It'll only be a few short minutes now."

Her breaths stopped as her nerves caught up to her again. Everything stilled and she could no longer feel the rise and drop over each passing rock. All of the sounds became hushed, muted; all but the beat of her heart, pounding loudly in her ears.

The horses guided the cart over a hill and at the crest, she could see the convent up ahead. As they neared, she kept her eyes on the convent, on the high walls, on the massive cross where the chapel must be located. High up, visible through a window in the tower, she could see a nun in habit, white robes, brown scapular, white veil, kneeling faithfully in prayer.

The cart slowed to a halt and she jumped down from it before Jan could help her. Staring up at the walls of the monastery of the Order of Carmelites, she thanked God that the nun's order was cloistered. She would hate it, hate to be so cut off from the world, if she actually had plans of entering, but with her plans as they were, it made things far more convenient. Jan would not be permitted to enter, and without staying to watch, therefore would not know that she never. And she couldn't. It would be too difficult to leave, once inside, and to disobey the rules of the enclosure could lead to a penalty as severe as excommunication.

Sarah held her breath. Clutching her sack, she glanced back at the horse-drawn cart and at Jan. "Thank you, Jan. You may go. I just need a minute."

Jan looked at her with an eyebrow raised, reluctant to leave her before she entered.

"I'll be fine, really." She smiled at him and raised her hand to knock for effect, letting it drop to her side as though she was gathering her last ounce of fortitude before stepping into another life. "I'll only be a minute."

She watched as Jan sighed and nodded. Slowly he guided the cart back around. She continued watching as he glanced back, and then she turned back to the gate, hoping Jan would believe she was still trying to summon the nerve. When the sounds of the horses' hooves and the wheels rolling over dirt and gravel faded into nothing, she swung her sack over her shoulder and disappeared around the side of the wall.

Slowly pulling each piece of clothing out of the sack, she stripped herself of her dress and pulled on Jan's ragged old garments. The garments draped over her, far too large for her body, hanging on her small frame. Pulling out a length of rope, she fastened it around her waist, using it as a belt to hold up the well oversized breeches. She tucked her shirt into the breeches, noticing how the shirt hung baggy on her. The outfit was ragged, torn and beyond its days, but it would work. The size, at the very least, hid her somewhat female figure, though, lacking in the curves as she was, it was not difficult to hide that figure.

The last item she put on was a flat cap, tucking her hair into it and hoping it would conceal the last of her femininity. Costume in place, she moved away from the building and started trekking down the road.

Two days later, she was in Prague, dirty and tired and weak with hunger. The disguise had worked. She'd made it to Prague without being molested, but she had very little food and very little money. With no place to stay and no money to spend, she could ill afford lodging, let alone school. In the coming days, she would find jobs hard to come by as work for a mathematician was at a premium. Marta's words of warning were coming back to haunt her and she worried about what she'd have to do just to get by.

* * *

Guilbert hesitated before following Jiri through the square. While his body ached for release, he was not sure if he could transfer his desire for Sarah to another woman. He wanted Sarah to be the one to usher him from boyhood to manhood, not some girl he hired. It wouldn't mean anything bought and paid for. However, he was so young and so inexperienced and Jiri was so very convincing. Guilbert feared that if he did not find release soon, he may let himself succumb to Antoinette's offers and trap himself in a life he knew he did not want. Besides, he never knew if Sarah was waiting for him after he left her the way he did. She had fled from his arms and her father had denied him of her.

He paused in the street, hesitating again. He would go back for Sarah. He would do whatever it took to bring her back into his life and fill the emptiness left in her absence. He stared forward, ready to turn around. Jiri looked back at him and smirked. "Come Guilbert, it is time you became a man. The whores will take good care of you."

He felt ill and really wanted to turn back, but he was curious, and the pleasures of the flesh were calling to him. Hesitantly, he followed Jiri, slipping into a den of prostitutes. Immediately, he became torn between thoughts of leaving, and his intrigue, arguing to stay. A veiled woman, tall and slim, took his hand, leading him back into a private room. Under some sort of spell, he could only follow.

He stood in the room, door closed behind him, standing stock still, not knowing what to do. Beneath the veil, he could distinguish a hint of a smirk upon the woman's lips. She moved towards him, her hand, tentative at first and growing more bold, running along the waist of his breeches.

Slowly, she grasped the waistband and slid the breeches over his hips and thighs. As she bent to help the breeches over his knees, he was presented with a view of her breasts, small but lovely, not quite a woman, but a more a girl, nearer to his own age. Staring down at her, he swallowed, feeling himself tighten and no longer in control. When his breeches were at his ankles and she was kneeling before him, he swallowed again, watching her hand slowly slide up his leg to touch him.

He recoiled at the light touch, coming to his senses and knowing this was not the girl he wanted touching him, no matter how wonderful the touch felt. Bending quickly, he pulled his breeches back up, covering himself and holding them in place. He turned, his horrified face glancing down at his body betraying him, and he fled from the room, and then from the building. Once outside, he stopped running, panting heavily. He fell against the wall of the building, closing his eyes and sliding to the ground. He remained there, his head in his hands, nearly crying in shame, waiting until Jiri came out nearly an hour later.

Guilbert never told Jiri what happened, letting Jiri assume he had, in his inexperience, just finished quickly. Walking down the street in silence, he could not rid himself of the shame. He missed Sarah so, ached for her, and needed to return quickly before the desperation to relieve him emptiness caused him to make a terrible mistake. As he strolled along with Jiri, he silently vowed to speak with Kepler soon and arrange time to return for Sarah.

His self reproaches were put on pause when he and Jiri came across a boy, huddled in an alley, mumbling and scraping lines into the street with a rock. The boy was ragged, his clothing in tatters. He was dirty and frail and very, very thin.

Guilbert felt something take hold of him and he reached forward slowly, placing his hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. The boy spun, grabbing the sack that lay beside him, and backing quickly into a corner, clutching the sack with white knuckles. Guilbert watched the boy as he huddled in the corner. When the boy lifted his face, Guilbert's eyes widened, shocked at the image before him, the familiarity of the features staring back at him. The youth's own eyes were wide as well, looking at him with an open mouth, the shocked expression mirroring Guilbert's.

Jiri's voice broke their stare. "The boy is raving mad. Did you hear how he murmurs? Let's not pay any more attention to his foolishness."

Guilbert regarded the frail figure and the way his clothes hung from his body. "No man is exactly lucid when he is starving."

"He's just a drifter, Guilbert. Throw him some change and let's be on our way."

Remembering his days drifting from place to place without a groschen, Guilbert felt a pang of sympathy for the boy. "We should do something to help him." He bent over, examining the lines the boy had carved into the street, studying them. He was surprised by what he saw. He looked up at the boy. "Is this math?"

The boy nodded.

Guilbert turned his eyes back to Jiri. "Jiri, take a look at this. It's fairly advanced."

Jiri sighed above him, kneeling, Guilbert knew, only to indulge him. He watched as Jiri's eyes widened, his face lifting to meet Guilbert's. "It is fairly advanced. Take him to Kepler. Perhaps Kepler could give him some work."

Guilbert nodded, rising to his feet. "We should get him some food and a place to rest first, and help him get cleaned up." He turned back to the boy. "What is your name?"

The boy opened his mouth and stopped, staring at Guilbert. Eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed, he took several moments before he answered. "Tomas."

"I'm Guilbert," he spoke kindly. "This is Jiri. We aren't going to hurt you." He took a careful step forward, extending his hand. "Come, let's get you some food."

Completely unexpected, the boy reached for his hand with no hesitation, the youth's eyes surprisingly filled with trust. The slim hand slipped into Guilbert's, allowing Guilbert to guide the youth to the street.


	59. The Bohemian, VI

**The Bohemian, VI**

At first they wanted to take her to a bath house. Knowing how well that would turn out, revealing her before she had the chance, or even presence of mind to do so, she quickly declined. Jiri had argued that it would do her good. When she shook her head vigorously, Guilbert had been wise enough to offer another option. It was how Sarah found herself in a shallow basin, in an empty room in his boarding house, used by only the owner of the house and, she had to smile, by Guilbert.

Sarah lay in the small basin, the water cooling as she ran the cloth over her skin, trying to remove the dirt and grime. She could scarcely believe the events that had transpired. Desperate and starving on the street, she never imagined that it would be Guilbert who lifted her off the streets and gave her another chance, a better chance, at her own life.

The anger and humiliation of his leaving was still very present. It still tore at her heart, but his kindness, his unselfishness, his beauty and every other part of his make-up that she had first fallen in love with, was once again on display, only seconds after seeing him once more. Heaven help her, but she'd fallen even more in love with him. The ache for him had never stopped and seeing him again, being witness to the beauty of him again, made that ache all the more acute.

A knock on the door had her scrambling to cover herself. "Don't come in," she called in a panic, realizing that if they thought she was a boy, Guilbert and Jiri might not hesitate to enter.

The voice that answered, low and understanding, made her eyes close with longing. "I'll just place some food inside the door."

The door opened slowly, and a hand reached in, placing a tray against the wall. Sarah waited for the door to close again before scrambling for the food, tearing it into small pieces and placing each piece in her mouth, one by one, with barely a second between bites. She had never been so hungry in her life.

"Thank you," she spoke softly, through the door, taking only enough time to get the words out before biting into her food once again.

Guilbert's voice drifted through the door again. "I'll leave you some of my clothes to borrow while we get yours cleaned. They'll be just outside the door."

She thanked him again, finishing her food, and then, her bath. Wrapping the towel around her body, she moved back to the door, cracking it open and reaching out for Guilbert's garments. She closed the door again and lifted his shirt to her nose, breathing in his scent.

The towel dropped and she dressed quickly, impatient to be wearing his clothes, clothes he wore on his own body, clothes that had rested against his skin. It seemed frivolous, but it was all she had of him at the moment. She wanted to reveal herself, but there was something stopping her. He'd already walked away from her once. She was so insecure and unsure and she was afraid to reveal herself before he did. She had to know if he thought of her first. She had to know what this new life he was living was like and what he'd be giving up if he made the choice to be with her. She knew he needed the time to find himself, and as insecure as it made her feel, she needed to give it to him.

Sighing, she stepped into the hall and moved towards a familiar pair of voices. Though their voices were low, nearly whispers, she could make out the conversation.

"_I am a private man, Jiri. That room is my space."_

"_You wanted to help the boy, Guilbert."_

Unwanted as she felt, she still moved forward. She'd known that about Guilbert. She'd watched and observed him enough to know that he was uncomfortable with people in his space. What was surprising to her was how she had seemed to be the exception. Now, she was dressed as a man, a stranger to him. She could not take offence if he was uncomfortable with her, with the queer boy, Tomas, in his room. Sarah took another step forward, the floor creaking beneath her feet.

Both sets of voices stopped and their owners spun towards her. She stilled as Guilbert's eyes focused on her. The weight of the stare was pressing and her heart clenched, both hating and loving how that stare felt.

His eyes swept over her body and she tried not to blush. He looked up at her face again and audibly sighed. "You can stay with me tonight, Tomas. Come on."

Sarah followed silently, fearing if she spoke now, she'd give herself away. Inside his room, she stood in the doorway, observing where he slept. It was small and sparsely furnished, a place to sleep, and, she looked over at the desk, to write and nothing more.

Guilbert offered her the bed but she shook her head quickly, sitting against the wall, wrapping her arms around her legs and holding her knees to her chest. She watched silently as Guilbert moved to his desk, picking up a quill and immediately placing it back down. He sighed and stood and paced before finally lying on his bed.

She continued to watch him, to watch his eyes flutter closed and his breathing even out. Slowly and quietly, so as not to wake him, she placed her hands on the floor and pushed herself up. She crept to the desk, her footfalls nearly silent. Her fingers glided along the surface, stopping next to a pile of parchment. The top page had writing on it, but she could not make it out in the dark. Sighing, she moved to Guilbert's bed, softly seating herself on the edge.

The moonlight filtering through the window gave her just enough light to gaze upon his outline. He was so breathtaking in sleep. Relaxed and looking every bit his youth, she wondered if there had ever been a more beautiful man. He had been so generous with her, thinking her a stranger and still letting her into his room, giving her food and shelter. A tear rolled down her eye at the thought of how truly wonderful he was. Each day he held more of her heart.

Sarah continued to gaze at him, wishing she could just dip forward and press a kiss to his skin. The place above his eye, just where the hair finished curving, beckoned to her. Her fingers hovered over it, wanting to smooth over that hair, to touch his face and trace its beautiful outline. More than anything, she just wanted to feel him.

Sighing she stood and moved around the bed. She hesitated, the pause more than slight, and then lay on the bed behind him, folding her arms against her chest and shifting her body forward until she could feel the heat of his back crossing that last bit of space between them, warming her face and her arms and her legs.

* * *

In the dawn of the early morning, between slumber and waking, he dreamt of her warmth pressed against him, her breath between his shoulder blades. So real was the dream, the feel of her pressed to him, to his back, had him smiling in sleep. He never wanted to wake. The warmth had been missing ever since the morning she'd fled from his arms, so he fought off waking, hoping to hold onto that warmth for just a little longer.

It was the smell of her that had his eyes fluttering open. Could one smell in his dreams? The uncertainty of that answer pushed off the last vestiges of his sleep.

It took a moment for the haze to clear, but when it did, the smell and feel of Sarah were even more present. There was something warm pressed to his backside. Rubbing his eyes, he shuffled forward and rolled onto his back. A glance to the side revealed the wandering youth from the day before, curled on the bed, peacefully asleep.

Guilbert lay utterly confused and unsettled. How could he have mistaken that warmth for Sarah? It left him ill at ease, not that the boy had crawled in to his bed, for in his discomfort at sharing his space with anyone but Sarah, he'd forgotten to leave the boy even a blanket. The boy had needed a good rest and a warm bed, and sleeping on the floor without a blanket would not have given him one. No, what left Guilbert so painfully confused, so extremely unsettled, was at how the boy's presence comforted him in sleep, at how he'd enjoyed the warmth of the boy and the feel of him, and how he'd mistaken that warmth and that feel, and that smell, for his love.

Sighing, he sat up in the bed and took a moment to study the fair youth. When he'd first looked upon that boy the evening before, beneath the dirt and the grime, Sarah's features had stared back at him. He had thought it was the guilt of allowing another to touch him, but staring at the boy now, the clean boy with no more dirt to obscure the features or lead him to imagine things, the resemblance was still remarkable, even clearer, in fact. If Sarah had a brother and not a sister, Guilbert would have waged all that he owned that this youth was him. Guilbert shook the thoughts from his head and tried to study the youth with a more objective eye.

Tomas was really a pretty youth, thin and delicate, very fair. His face was sharp angles, high cheekbones, thin eyebrows and delicately rounded lips. The flat cap the youth had worn, even to bed for reasons unfathomable, had shifted slightly, revealing a few strands of unruly brown hair. Beneath the clothes that Guilbert had lent the boy, he could see nothing more than that the boy was thin. A slim wrist poked out of the sleeve. Long, slender fingers splayed over the mattress by the boy's face.

Slowly the youth's eyes flickered open, and deep brown eyes stared up at him. Guilbert watched as the boy's hand slid down along the mattress, stopping near Tomas's waist. Tomas pushed himself up before Guilbert, half sitting in the bed and resting on his arm. The other arm shoved the unruly strands of hair back beneath the cap. Guilbert continued to watch as the youth glanced at the bed and blushed.

"I'm very sorry."

He shook his head. "No, it's fine. I should have offered you a blanket." He shrugged. "Tonight you'll be sleeping in your own bed."

The boy smiled softly. "I cannot repay my gratitude."

Guilbert shook his head again. He moved to stand, just as the boy moved to sit and their hands landed on the same place on the bed. Guilbert could feel the touch of the boy's cool hands burning into him and the confusion that had clouded his mind when he awoke had returned. He stared at the boy, unable to look away.

Tomas turned away quickly, rising from the bed and moving across the room. Guilbert felt he should say something, but he was at a loss. His eyes remained on the youth until a loud knock startled him and had his head whipping to the door. He moved quickly to open it, letting Jiri enter.

"Well," Jiri began, his tone jovial, "shall we go to the lab and see about finding this boy work?"

Guilbert nodded. "Yes, we should go."

"Good. We'll pick up pastries on the way. Are you hungry, Tomas?"

Both Jiri and Guilbert stared at the boy, waiting for him to respond. The boy stared back, and then his eyes widened. "Oh. Yes, very."

"Very well," Jiri spoke again, letting the strangeness of the moment pass without drawing more attention to it. "Let's go."

Guilbert followed behind the two, observing as Jiri engaged Tomas in lively talk. Jiri treated them all to pastries, handing the first to Tomas. Guilbert watched as the youth bit delicately into the pastry, brushing the crumbs from his lips.

Observing the boy from a careful distance, Guilbert tried to make sense of what he was feeling. The boy was, thus far, very interesting, and he reminded Guilbert so much of Sarah, Guilbert ached for her all the more.

"He really is a beautiful youth."

Guilbert turned to Jiri, taking the pastry Jiri offered him. His eyes drifted back to the boy. "I suppose."

"I don't recall seeing many young men so delicate, so fair, apart from eunuchs of course."

Guilbert frowned. Perhaps it was the boy's femininity that was drawing him in, just as it was the resemblance to Sarah. "Perhaps he is one."

Jiri shook his head. "No, in Prague, there is always work for eunuchs. If he were one, he wouldn't be starving in the street."

At that, Guilbert had to agree. "Well, with hope, he won't be starving much longer."

"Kepler will give him something. As long as the boy's attention matches his ability, Kepler will have work for him. The Emperor won't be happy, but Kepler is already planning on asking him to increase his patronage. With the attention Kepler's work on optics is garnering, he is in a good position to ask Emperor Rudolph anything."

And so, Jiri was right. With both Jiri and Guilbert's word behind the boy, Tomas had gained employment under Kepler. As the newest assistant before Tomas, Guilbert was given the responsibility to work with the boy. After Jiri had left them to begin his work for the day, Guilbert took Tomas back to the boarding house. There was still one room left, and with the money Guilbert lent the boy for rent, Tomas was given the last room. That morning, Guilbert had a class to teach at the University and as Tomas could not begin work without him, he invited the youth along.


	60. The Bohemian, VII

**The Bohemian, VII**

Tomas was a fast learner, quickly picking up on the work in the lab. Guilbert had been helping the youth read through Kepler's work on optics, explaining it to him, before moving onto the pressing work on orbits.

From his observations, Guilbert found the boy's knowledge of mathematics rough, edgy but instinctive, intuitive, lacking in formal training, not as advanced as someone who had studied it in university, but accurate and natural all the same. The youth moved quickly from student to colleague. As the boy advanced, Guilbert acted as a mentor, guiding the boy to more complex forms of mathematics and talking through the problems they faced in their work together. He found himself quickly becoming amazed at Tomas's insight and the youth's ability to pick things up quickly. The youth was a wunderkind when it came to math, brilliant and extremely gifted. He had a sharp intellect, a quick wit, and a mind that reminded Guilbert so much of Sarah. The boy's presence, while sharpening the ached he felt with Sarah's absence, was also a comfort. He enjoyed the youth's presence, enjoyed talking about the stars and the planets with the youth. He did not enjoy the attention Antoinette began to bestow on the youth.

From the moment he'd introduced Tomas to Antoinette, Guilbert could perceive how Antoinette had changed her object of desire from him to the youth. She had placed her hand so daintily in Tomas's, had blushed and giggled and leaned into the fair youth. It made Guilbert's stomach drop and that confused him. He had not interest in Antoinette, or did he? If he never, why did witnessing Antoinette throw her attention onto the boy have his stomach in knots? He hated the attention Antoinette garnered on Tomas, hated it. Could he really have feelings for the girl? He must, if the gnawing at the pit of his stomach was anything to go by. And then he thought of Sarah, and how he loved her, so purely, so fully and he was confused again. He loved Sarah, wanted no woman but her and yet, it bothered him so to see Antoinette giving her attention to Tomas. Oh how he hated it, and soon he found himself finding ways to deflect that attention, to draw her attention back to him.

Guilbert began by paying more attention to Antoinette, being more tender and attentive. Soon, he found himself dropping low, subtle hints that had the girl blushing and left him feeling incredibly guilty. Still, he allowed himself minor touches and gentle caresses. He spoke to her in whispers, leaning down, into her neck to speak softly in her ear. Nothing he did eased the confusion. In fact, the confusion only intensified when he tried to rationalize how he felt. He felt ill when he spoke to her, light when he spoke to Tomas, and when the two spoke to each other, he wanted to run from the room, the pain overwhelming. Oh, what a twisted triangle had befallen him.

* * *

To be in the lab with him, to watch him give his personal attention to another girl, was something akin to heartbreak. Sarah watched with an aching heart as Guilbert sat next to Antoinette and leaned towards the girl to whisper something into her ear. The two shared a conversation she would never be privy to. Guilbert had been careful in keeping whatever he and Antoinette spoke about very much to themselves. It hurt. It fed her insecurities.

She'd had to witness Guilbert courting the girl ever since she arrived. The pain of watching him want another, court another was almost too much to bear. However, bear it she did, able to do so only with the realization that Antoinette was more interested, in her, in Tomas, than in Guilbert. Soon though, Guilbert's attentions began growing in success and the girl began wavering between them. Sarah wanted to give up, to cry, to run away, never to return. She could not compete with Antoinette, the dainty girl who would soon curve into a beautiful woman.

Oh, but when she was alone with Guilbert, when he would gently ease her through her faltering of a new axiom , or when they would sit outside the boarding house and gaze up at the stars, just as they had on his roof in Pardubice, she knew she could not leave. He had a hold on her heart and just being near him was infinitely better than being apart. She could see he still felt for something for her, the way he spoke wistfully of watching the stars in Pardubice and the way he still looked at her, still with softness and more, though he didn't know it was her. Her touch still affected him, and she could see the confusion in his eyes when they spoke and when he looked at her and especially when there was a fortuitous touch. That look, that confusion, came very close to convincing her of his love. Perhaps he was torn between his past life, and the present one. Perhaps he thought a return to the old life was not possible. Perhaps he only needed more time.

It became clear to her that she could not leave. She was so very much in love with him, and whether seeing him with Antoinette or thinking about it from a distance, her imagination would betray her either way. Knowing she would not leave, she decided to make the best of her situation. She would work with him as much as possible, learn from him as much as possible, and if Antoinette was still torn between Tomas and Guilbert, and Antoinette wanted to be friendly with Tomas, Tomas would extend the courtesy and be friendly as well.

* * *

Stepping out of the shallow basis, Sarah ran a towel over her damp skin, glancing down at the shape beginning to form. She was finally growing into her body, gentle curves showing that she was sure had never shown before. As she dried, her hand paused over her chest, stopping to feel the changes.

The towel dropped and she reached for her garments. Of the clothing she'd brought, the only items she packed that were her own, were her undergarments and a couple of nightgowns. Slipping a thin nightgown over her body, she let the cool feel of the fabric rest against her skin. Her wet hair dripped down onto the gown, causing the material to cling to her neck, shoulders and the top of her back and chest.

Reaching down, she picked up her towel and wrapped Jan's dirty cloths in it. Holding the towel in one hand, she opened the door and stepped out. There was some absent whistling and the sound of footsteps and her head shot up quickly to the sound. Her eyes widened at the man approaching. Standing in her nightgown and nothing more, she was utterly revealed to him. She tucked her head down, hoping he did not see her face, hoping that her hair could hide her from him.

She lifted her eyes to see him pause in the hall, staring at her. Her hand reached back for the door handle and twisted it. She backed into the room, clutching her towel and cloths to her chest with one hand, the other still resting on the door knob. Closing the door behind her, she dropped the towel and the cloths and rested her forehead on the cool wood, her breaths rapid, then slowing.

Sarah waited for the absence of sound, something to indicate he'd moved on his way. When she could hear nothing, she cracked the door open, peeking out. Jiri was still there, leaning against a wall, his eyes closed, his hand resting over his breast. It would be a while before she could escape the room and reach her own without again being noticed.


	61. The Bohemian, VIII

**The Bohemian, VIII**

There was a buzz to the lab, the animation and the excitement of an important stepping stone in place, supporting the weight of the group gathered together as they hoped to aid in the placing of another stone. It was a moment to share, and how he longed to be able to share it with Sarah, share the beauty of this new discovery, to share in her awe and her wonder, to witness her understanding of reason and make-up and truth. He felt at odds, the dichotomy of being so refreshed and invigorated working in this place, this lab, with these people, and feeling so intolerably, painfully alone, so utterly confused, light shed upon one subject and a shadow cast over the other.

At first, the existence of the new star, was supposed to be a rumor. However, Kepler had decided to observe it, and the findings were immense. Taking all the variables and setting them in place, it was the birth of a new star. The heavens were not fixed or unchanging, but varying, altering.

The chart was spread across the entire table. Pushing away his sorrow at not being able to share this moment with Sarah, Guilbert bent over the chart and began to study it with absolute concentration. Soon, he became lost in the chart, in the position of the new star, which he had also observed at night, missing Sarah more, aching for her more, each time he looked upon the wonder.

Jiri was beside him, focused on the same diagram, but unlike Guilbert, Jiri's attention was split. Through the fog of his concentration, Guilbert could hear Jiri's voice beside him, the words and sentences filtering in, but not being processed.

"Did you know there was a young girl in the boarding house?"

Jiri's question warranted no reply. Guilbert kept his eyes and thoughts on the diagram.

"I only saw her face for a fraction of a second," Jiri continued, "not long enough to make out the details, or to get a good look, but long enough to want one."

"Hmm," Guilbert responded absently, glancing up briefly to note that Jiri was still looking down at the sketch.

"Her eye's…" Jiri trailed off.

"Oh?" Guilbert had barely heard the words, his response coming on instinct rather than comprehension.

"Her body, oh that silhouette, a girl shaping into a woman. Was there ever anything more attractive?" Jiri bent forward, his elbow landing on the drawing. Guilbert had to look up and frowned upon seeing Jiri's cheek resting upon his hand.

"Thin, but somehow it suited her." Jiri paused, and his tone became reflective. "I never would have wagered I would find myself attracted to a thin girl, but, as they say, love has no eyes, yes?"

"Jiri," Guilbert paused and waited for Jiri to look up at him. He gestured to the chart. "Do you mind?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." Jiri stood, glancing down at the chart. "It really is amazing, isn't it? All that Kepler's observations have come to, all the understanding this discovery is bound to open up."

"Yeah," he whispered in reply. The discovery, he hoped, would open up a world of understanding. The Universe was not fixed. There could be precision and harmony in its ability change. All that was assumed about the heaven's absolute fixed perfection had been false supposition. It was the kind of knowledge, the kind of truth Guilbert needed to take to Sarah's father if he was to convince the old man of his convictions. His finger landed on the position of the new star and stilled. Then, he straightened up, glancing about the room.

His eyes found the one other person, apart from Sarah, he wanted to share in this with. Tomas had spent the morning working at a table across the room. When Guilbert glanced over at the pretty youth, he was annoyed to find Antoinette at Tomas's table.

The two were smiling, speaking in hushed tones, and Tomas's hand was cupping Antoinette's elbow. Guilbert tried to shake off the green-eyed monster, but the emotion took control. He felt Jiri's hand clasp his arm and he shook it off.

"She's far more attracted to the pretty youth."

The pain of that knowledge was a knife to his heart.

"If you were to gain her full attentions again, a girl like her would cuckold you in an instant."

He nodded.

"Then why?"

That, he could not answer.

"Is it that you miss her sole focus being on you?"

"I don't know," he replied quietly.

Jiri let out a half laugh, not comforting to Guilbert's mindset. "And here, I had been thinking you were in love with someone else."

Guilbert sighed. He turned away from the beautiful boy and dainty girl, his mind agonizing over the confusion and the heartache the scene had caused. He closed his eyes. "I am."

It was then that he decided to speak to Kepler immediately. What he was feeling, it had to be loneliness. He liked, not the attention of the beautiful girl, but that she had given it. One glance at Sarah, and he knew the confusion would be gone; his cloudy mind would be cleared.

Soon. Kepler asked him to wait a fortnight, to remain in the lab and help to make sure that all was in order before returning to Pardubice. It was an easy enough inquiry to be granted, for although he missed Sarah painfully, though he yearned for her, he could not escape his reluctance to leave Tomas with Antoinette.

* * *

The buzz of the lab was catching. Though she was new and unable to really share in the excitement, her agenda full of tasks to accomplish, she could not help but feel the enthusiasm, and more so, be delighted for Guilbert, for the inspiration it brought out in him, for further evidence to the substantiation of his convictions and the feeding of his passion.

She had witnessed the star, as Tomas, with Guilbert, when they were still in doubt of it's new emergence, thinking it just a star that had gotten lost in the shadow of others. It had stolen her breath to listen to him speculate on it and what it would mean if the star had in fact, been newly born. Guilbert's voice had quivered with the idea, and she knew, in her heart, he was looking for something to believe in, something to inspire him.

In the recesses of her mind, there was also no small amount of relief at the excitement in the lab, not only for Kepler's findings, but for the attention it drew. Through the night, she had little sleep, worrying about what Jiri saw when she had stepped into the hall in only her nightgown. All morning she had been so afraid to see Jiri, fearing that if she met his eyes, he would realize that she was the girl in their boarding house.

Alas, Jiri's part in the excitement could not last forever and when he approached her about the girl, she froze, fearing he was suggesting something. Jiri asked her if she'd seen the girl and her breath came out heavy, the weight temporarily off her chest.

"Girl? No, I haven't seen any girl." It wasn't an outright lie.

Jiri sighed. "Ah, Tomas, to be given sight of an angel and have her disappear…"

Though it was sad, Sarah had to bite back a laugh. Angel? At least her disguise was still intact.

Jiri's face became solemn. "I am going to find her, for my heart beats swiftly for her."

If she hadn't been so mortified, she would have laughed. Yet, it was painfully sad, and she could not help but feel for Jiri, despite the humiliation and the humor in his musings. She could do nothing but close her eyes and suppress her groan. It was enough to have to deal with Antoinette, but Jiri too? Everything was so ridiculously complicated, the triangle growing an arm.

As for what she wanted, she just wanted Guilbert. She wanted to talk about Kepler's findings with Guilbert, and hear the excitement in his voice, see it in his eyes.

She glanced past Jiri to see Guilbert at work. She smiled softly, watching with gentle, longing eyes until she saw Antoinette approach Guilbert from behind and attempt to steal his attention. He seemed to shrug it off until his eyes found hers and he noticed her watching. His intense stare held hers and she could not breathe. Then, he looked away and Antoinette had his attention.

"Excuse me," she whispered to Jiri, her voice hoarse. She turned back to her work, ending the conversation. The rest of the afternoon, until the sun fell and there was not enough light to see her work, she remained focused on it, not allowing her thoughts to drift to anything else.


	62. The Bohemian, IX

**The Bohemian, IX**

Beneath the faint light of the moon, he stood, cold, alone and still, inspired. The night had an ethereal quality, belonging to something greater than him, than the lab or Kepler or Prague, or even the Holy Roman Empire. Perhaps it was only the day's events washing over him.

Earlier, it had looked like it would be an overcast night, the clouds obscuring the stars, but, over the course of the evening, the mist had cleared and it was shaping into a clear night. He looked to the sky, to the stars shining brilliantly overhead, and he searched for Mars amongst them. His gaze swept across the sky, to the constellation Gemini and landed on the planet before finding it's way across the sky to the new star. Holding his thumb up to the star, he covered it and uncovered it, flicking his thumb back and forth in the air, trying to remember a moment when the star was not there, and though that hadn't been long ago, the idea of it having not been around felt surreal. His thoughts were on Sarah, on sharing this moment, this radiance, this inspiration. It was when he felt most in awe he missed her the most.

Shivering in the cool autumn night, he sat on the front step of the boarding house, lifting his knees to his chest and tucking his arms between them. Though it was cold and the chill swept through him, he could not bear to go inside. The sky called to him, raised the question of what Sarah was doing, if she was looking into the same sky and thinking of him, missing him with even a fraction of the intensity he was missing her. What would her thoughts be, if she was there with him? What were her thoughts now?

He faded off into sleep, his head resting against the side of the building, until the chill of the night had seeped into him, waking him. A moment of reluctance passed before a sigh fell from his lips and he rose, entering the house and climbing the stairs to his room. After a slight pause at Tomas's door, he entered his room, lighting a candle on his desk, picking up his quill and vainly trying to describe the day, the meaning...his thoughts. He abandoned the letter to Sara, his failure at expressing himself to her ever present. The parchment was placed on top of the others, the latest page in his ongoing sonnet to Sarah. Blowing out the candle, he lay upon his bed as he had that first night, his thoughts running the same course.

His thoughts were still on Sarah the next morning, the ache still present, still acute. He focused on his work, wanting to bury himself in it, to block the pain of missing her. Antoinette approached him early in the work day. He was busy with calculations and found her intrusion annoying. She chose to sweep the floor beside him, though perhaps, he had to ruefully admit, it was because he kept crumpling up paper and throwing it behind his shoulder.

He could not deal with her attentions, not that morning. Apart from working, he only wanted to speak to Tomas, to use the boy as a surrogate for Sarah, to have an understanding mind listen to his thoughts on the Kepler's revelation. And, he wanted Tomas's input, to ask what the fair youth thought of Kepler's findings. Guilbert smiled at Antoinette and stepped past her, approaching the table where Tomas was working.

"Good morning."

Tomas smiled, sending a pang to his heart and he felt the familiar ache for Sarah stirring.

"Good morning."

Guilbert stepped closer to the pretty youth. "Have you had much time to study Kepler's findings?"

"No," Tomas shook his head and then cocked it to the side. "Walk me through it."

And so he did, through the measurements and the calculations and observances. He guided Tomas to the table where the sketch laid, leaning over the boy from behind, taking Tomas's finger and placing it over the position of the new star just as he'd done with his own finger the day before. Holding the youth's small hand in his, he played with the youth's fingers, long and slim and so delicate. Reluctant to let go, Guilbert waited for Tomas to pull his hand away, but the pretty youth never, letting Guilbert's fingers play over his. His finger's inched over Tomas's thumb, positioning it over the star and hiding the sketch of the star beneath it. Then, he drew the thumb away, revealing the star's position and watching Tomas look down at the sketch and his thumb in Guilbert's hand with a soft smile on his face. It was odd, how the only discomfort Guilbert felt was not in the youth's hand in his, but that it was the youth's hand. Guilbert shook his head, trying to rid himself of the confusion and discomfort.

If only, Guilbert rued, the boy were not so much like Sarah, in looks, in mannerisms, in the very feel of him, in his mind. Part of the intrigue with the pretty youth was at how the youth could grasp so much of the little details, the calculations, with ease, but looked to him for the larger vision, the larger understanding. Guilbert loved to see the boy's eyes brighten with realization when a puzzle was solved, a truth was revealed. The moment they were sharing, was one such moment. Guilbert turned his face to Tomas's, the two heads in close proximity. "It's incredible, the science behind it. This opens up a whole new vision."

Tomas's face lifted to his, eyes shining. "A new perspective. A whole new understanding."

He smiled. His gaze was locked to Tomas's. "That's what science does. That's what mathematics does. It opens us to new truths." He paused, staring at the boy, aware that their faces were only a breath apart, yet, remaining still. "It's beautiful, is it not?"

Before he was aware of any movement, Tomas had leaned forward and kissed him. Guilbert stood quickly, his eyes wide, his mouth sputtering. The boy had kissed him. Standing absolutely motionless, he stared at the youth, so shocked by Tomas's actions, he was unable to think, to speak, to stir. Slowly, he brought his hand to his mouth, three fingers lightly touching his tingling bottom lip.

Heavy breaths began to ease as the shock began to clear, and he knew those lips. How often had he dreamt of kissing them once more? How could he not know her, but then, how could Orlando not know Rosalind? His eyes narrowed, focusing on the youth's delicate features and he felt so humiliated, so angry. He grabbed the youth by the arm and dragged the boy outside.

"What kind of a game do you think you are playing?"

Sarah stared back at him, her own eyes wide. "Game?"

Guilbert leaned forward swiftly, taking her mouth with his and kissing her hard. He stepped back, ignoring the desire to deepen the kiss and dropping his hand from her arm. "Yes, Sarah."

Sarah's rapid breaths were the only sounds he heard. He stared at her, waiting for her breathing to ease. Her response was a plea. "It isn't a game."

"Oh, it isn't?" His comment was snide, full of anger and perhaps a little unfair, but so was the way she'd been treating him.

"No." Sarah's head was shaking side to side.

"Tomas, twin, very clever. You've been deceiving me."

"Not on purpose. I never told you I was a boy. You assumed…"

"You let me!" he shouted. Dropping his head and turning away, his voice became a whisper. "You made a fool out of me."

Guilbert felt her hand land on his arm. Her touch was so soft, so sensuous. It hurt. At least he knew the reason for his confusion. He thought he'd been fooling himself into believing the resemblance between Tomas and Sarah, a delusion brought on by wistful thinking, when, in actuality, it was no illusion. The pain of the confusion he'd been feeling left him weak and exhausted, defeated.

He felt her hand tug at his arm, attempting to turn him. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. "No, Guilbert, never a fool."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't." From the peripheral, he saw Sarah dip her head to meet his eyes. "I had to dress as a boy to travel. I had to borrow Jan's old cloths and then I didn't have anywhere to go and I couldn't live on the street as a girl. It was too dangerous."

The residual anger welled in him. He glared at her, firing burning in his eyes. "Traveling here was too dangerous! What were you thinking? Didn't you trust that I would return for you?"

Fire met with fire. "Oh, I saw that when I arrived here, all the attention you paid Antoinette!"

The comment, delivered with such vehemence, bit and brought his anger to full force. "Only because of the attention she was giving you. You had me so confused. There were times I almost let myself believe it was you, but then I would ask myself, what would Sarah be doing in Prague, dressed as a boy, starving on the street? I thought I must be imagining it, craving you so badly, I let my mind fabricate the resemblance. Even then, I still couldn't understand how drawn in I was by the boy. I couldn't understand how I could desire you and feel something I couldn't bring myself to name, for Tomas. I thought I must have been feeling it for Antoinette, but it was always you. Dressed as a boy, it was you. I would have returned for you!"

Sarah's voice softened. "I couldn't wait. If I could have, I would have. I had to get away."

The words did little to soothe his anger, so built up as it was. "No? How did you get here? Did you lie to your family as well?"

"No," she cried. "I didn't lie."

"They must be so worried," he continued, ignoring her cries. "Your father is so protective of you."

The last cry stopped him. "Possessive, not protective!"

He stared at her, the anger falling away as he fought to understand her words. Sarah sniffled. Her hand came up to her mouth, resting over it. Quietly, she began, "My father gave me a choice between choosing a husband amongst a select group of men of his choosing and entering a convent." She paused, her eyes closing. "They were really awful men."

Guilbert closed his eyes, almost in disbelief. He could scarcely believe it. The thought of it was painful, horrendous. He felt the urge to step forward, to take her in his arms and soothe her, but something stopped him. The humiliation was still present. He waited for Sarah to continue.

"I couldn't...no man, but you." She took another moment to gather herself, opening her eyes and meeting his. "I told my father I'd do neither and he shipped me off to a convent. I didn't lie. I told him I wasn't entering. When we reached the monastery, I hid and disguised myself as a boy, catching rides from there."

Guilbert's face softened. "You should have told me."

"I wanted to give you the space to work."

"Sarah…" He sighed.

"I wanted to work."

"And?"

"I couldn't as a woman."

"Why not?"

Sarah turned away from him. "Don't be obtuse." She turned back. "You know they would not listen to anything I said as a woman."

Guilbert sighed. Her words, unfortunately, were accurate. The men at the lab would not value her input if they knew she was a girl, despite her talent, her gift. "I would."

"I know." The words came out as a sigh.

"Sarah…" He stared down at his feet. Glancing back up at her, he lifted his hands and softly grasped her shoulders, drawing her body into his. "Are you alright?"

He could feel her nod against his shoulder before she pulled back from his embrace. "I want to keep working here."

Guilbert nodded. "I know."

"Our secret?"

"Of course."

He embraced her again, reveling in the press of her chest against his, of her warm breath on his neck and he felt that familiar throb of desire. He wanted to hold her in his arms all morning, but knew they had to return inside, where work beckoned. He drew back and smiled. "We should go…" The words trailed off.

"Back inside, yes."

Breathing softly, he let his hand glide down her arms, landing at her wrists. Her hands lifted upwards and he took them in his, giving each a gentle squeeze. With a sigh, he allowed them to drop. Both stood motionless, the sun warming the skin, peeking out behind the clouds, the first warmth he'd felt in so long. He waited for her to move, to pass in front and then followed her back into the building.

Parting for the moment, he left Sarah to her work and returned to his. As was his luck, Jiri approached, wearing a smirk. "The fair youth kissed you."

Guilbert frowned.

"I did not see it, so answer me, is it true?"

He still did not respond, focusing instead on his work.

"I see, tight-lipped. Tell me, were his as well?"

* * *

Everything changed in that one afternoon. The atmosphere at the lab felt lighter. Guilbert looked so much more comfortable, sharing soft smiles with her, or low exchanges of words over work. She did not distress when Antoinette approached Guilbert and felt more comfortable when Antoinette approached her, not having to encourage the girl any more. When the afternoon passed and the light began to face, Guilbert approached her work station, his tone hopeful. "Accompany me on the walk home?"

Sarah smiled. "Gladly."

She packed up her notes, placing them in a neat smile and stepped outside with Guilbert. They walked side-by-side, keeping some distance between them, wearing matching smiles.

Outside the boarding house, she felt Guilbert catch her hand. She turned back to him, an eyebrow raised.

"Sarah, I don't like you living alone."

A half laugh, bordering on a sigh, escaped. "I have been living alone for a month now."

"I know." Guilbert sighed. "It still isn't safe."

This time, the sound that escaped was a snort of disbelief. "Guilbert, they think I am a boy."

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you always look like one?"

Sarah thought back to Jiri, catching her in the hall. At the time, her worry had been more about him recognizing her that at anything he would have done, but only because she knew and trusted Jiri. She sighed. "No."

"Stay with me."

They were words she longed to hear, but spoken in the wrong context. "I can take care of myself."

"That isn't why I'm asking."

"It isn't?" She felt hope well within her.

"No. I know you can take care of yourself. It doesn't mean you should. I would feel better if you stayed with me."

Sarah frowned, frustration growing. She had come all this way safely. "We live in the same building. You can still watch out for me if it would help you feel better, though it isn't needed. I am fine on my own."

Guilbert sighed, in what sounded like equal frustration. "Again, that's not why I'm asking."

"Why are you asking?"

"Because I want you with me." Sarah gaped at him. He continued, "I know you're fine. I know you can take care of yourself. I still worry. Stay with me."

She wavered. She wanted to be with him, to live with him, more than anything, but not because he felt a need to protect her.

"Sarah, please," he paused, "We'll save money."

She laughed. That would be helpful. At the moment, she was barely getting by and she'd yet to repay Guilbert the money he'd lent to her as Tomas. She still had to repay Marta… "I don't know."

Guilbert stepped closer. "Sarah, sweet Sarah, I pray thee…" He paused, leaning in. "I miss you when you aren't there."

She nodded. "Alright."


	63. The Bohemian, X

**The Bohemian, X**

Tentative fingers inched over the thin nightgown, slowly crawling over the tender, slight swell of her abdomen. Holding her to his chest, letting his light, cautious touch wander over her lithe body, he could feel her changes, the gentle curves that had begun to form, the softness where once, he'd only felt jutting bone, the breathtaking girl, still thin, always thin, now rounding into graceful lines.

They were both still so, so young, but now it felt as though she was on the threshold of something and he ached for her all the more. It was agony to lie so close and to feel her and smell her and try to remain in control. He wanted to weep, for lost time, for what he'd risked when he first walked away from her, weep for the stillness of her, the movement, for the agony, the euphoria, the price, the prize, for everything now in his arms, for the beauty he held, for Sarah, Sarah, always Sarah.

Reflexively, his embrace tightened, as though pressing his chest closer, holding her closer would help him regain control, to ease the torment of his mind and body. Clinging to her, he only needed something to hold onto. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, and he squeezed his moist eyes shut, breathing against her back and trying to hold the tears in. Her form was still, awake, silent, on edge, her body mirroring his tension. He could feel it and his mind whispered reassurances. _Relax. Breathe. She's here. No more_ _loneliness. No more pain. No more confusion. _He sighed and shifted against her, snuggling in and letting the weight of his thoughts ease from his body. In turn, Sarah's own body relaxed, nestling into his chest.

He woke with her hair splayed over his face and inside his mouth. Tipping his head back, he spit the strands from his mouth, gently bobbing his head from side to side in an attempt to rid himself of the last few without waking her. His hands were unavailable.

Some time in the night, Sarah had taken his hand resting on her stomach and clasped it with hers, bringing it to rest against her chest, just above the dip between her two modest breasts. The rhythm of her heart was subtle, but he could feel it, the beat, the beat, the slow, even tapping against the back of his hand. One tap and he focused his concentration on it, longing to feel all the others. One beat and another. Tap…tap…tap, and he was lulled by the rhythm. He could feel the vibrations of the beat within him. He could hear the beat in his ears, the cadence of her gentle breaths joining in, a soothing duet. One breath, _I missed you. _One breath, _I need you._ One breath, _I want you. _One beat, one breath, words caught in his chest, in his throat, on his tongue, _I love you._

The soft sounds were accompanied by a low hum, the blend of each sound lyrical, a symphony. He let out a small, quiet, half laugh, wondering if Sarah knew she hummed in sleep. He shifted towards her, dropping his forehead to rest between her shoulder blades, and then turned his cheek to her back, wanting to feel her heartbeat from both sides, to feel her pulse against his hand on her chest, against his cheek, on her back, and he listened, to that slow, even pulse, to her delicate breaths, to her quiet, endearing hums. Sarah, in slumber, was poetry.

Her chest rose and fell with each breath, with every few beats. At that moment, he was so in tune with the rhythm of her, of the life flowing through her, with the measure of her, he could feel it inside his own body. The beat of his heart matched hers. His breaths joined hers. Symmetry. There was no ebb and flow, no irregularity, just the gentle cadence of their breaths and hearts in communion. Symmetry. Balance.

* * *

Through the dim haze of her morning slumber, she could hear the wind slapping against the wooden shutters, rousing her from her sleep. Outside, the breeze was whistling, and on any other morning, she would have felt the breeze pass through her. That morning, though, she felt only warmth.

Her eyes flickered open, and she blinked rapidly, taking in the soft light filtering into the room through the shutters. Upon her back, through the sheer material of her nightgown, she could feel warm breaths, his warm breaths and her skin cooled and tingled as each breath passed. Contented, she burrowed backwards, enjoying the feel of him so close. On any other morning, she would rise right away, unable to wait to start the day. That morning, she only wanted to stay in bed, in this bed, his bed.

The last time she'd awoken like this, she'd fled, afraid to face him before he left. Now she was afraid for a host of other reasons, but it was a pleasant fear, one that coiled in her stomach, timid yet wonderful anticipation of what might come next. Suddenly she was aware of his hand clasped in hers, held to her chest. Self-conscious, her hand released his.

Guilbert's hand opened and closed over her breastbone, his fingers softly, lazily, running over the nightgown, sending tingles down her spine. Slowly, the fingers drifted down, through the hollow between her breasts, his palm brushing lightly over one as it passed and she her breath caught. She shivered, her eyes closing. His hand then glided over her ribcage, to her stomach and across to land on her side. She stiffened, all of her muscles clenched together, aching to know what it would feel like to really feel his touch.

Behind her, she felt him lift his head from her back and shift forward. Every nerve on end, her breath still caught in her chest, she waited. She could feel his hand on her side apply slight pressure, as he lifted himself slightly. His body, so delightfully warm, slid up behind her, his chest gliding softly along her back, the rest of his body following. The movement, the feel of him, was suck sweet torture. She flushed, heat washing over her, at the feel of him, warm and solid and hard, pressed against her. Her breath came out in a rush, only for new air to be sucked back in and held. Her upper body stretched out, her long neck displaying its full length. Below her waist, her muscles were still firmly clenched. His hand slid back up to rest on her ribcage, his thumb skimming the bottom of her breast. His breath was on her neck, in her ear. "Good morning."

Sarah released her breath and felt her mouth turn up into a warm smile. "Good morning."

She felt his hand glide back down and give gentle tug. Yielding to his unspoken request, she rolled onto her back, opening her eyes. Guilbert was on his side, his elbow supporting his head as it rested upon his hand. He was staring down at her, eyes so blue, so full of wonder and so, so beautiful. She gazed back, lost in his eyes, in his smile. His hand lifted from her stomach and delicately brushed away her hair from her cheek and forehead. He let out a quiet laugh that had her furrowing her brow. Then, his eyes were on her again.

His fingers left her hair and swept over her face. His thumb hovered over the corner of her eye, where she felt a tear from sleep resting. She stared at him, waiting for his thumb to brush away the moisture, but the hand withdrew, landing on her side again. Instead, his head dipped forward and his warm lips landed softly on the corner of her eye, his tongue dipping out and dabbing up the salty fluid. His lips lingered for a moment before his head lifted. He gazed down at her again, his expression a little hesitant, uncertain. Wanting to feel his lips again, she tilted her head back, her chin up. Her hand landed on his, moving softly over it until her fingers were on his wrist. Her hand slid back so that her fingers rested over his hand, her palm over his fingers, her thumb tucked along side his, gentle, encouraging. Her eyes flittered closed and open again. Her breaths were coming in short. He smiled softly and slowly dipped his lips to hers in the sweetest kiss possible. Her eyes closed, the caress, the gentle tasting, so amazing. Her hand lifted from his and brushed over the side of his face, her fingers gliding back into his curls.

The disappearance of his lips on hers had her hand dropping and her eyes opening. Guilbert leaned forward, giving her lips another short kiss. He leaned back. His fingers skimmed through her hair. "We should get up."

She nodded.

From below him, she watched him sigh before lifting himself from the bed. She sat up, leaning back on her hands, unsure of what to do. They had moved her few belongings to his room the night before, but only after she'd changed into her nightgown, and he into something to sleep in, in the privacy of their own rooms. Now there was only one room, and though she was in love with him and wanted to share her body with him, she was embarrassed to change in front of him, especially since their relationship had not yet progressed to that level.

Guilbert was standing beside the bed, looking just as unsure. He turned, giving her his back, and lifted the shirt he'd worn to bed, over his head, exposing his broad, toned, beautiful back. She watched as he looked back and blushed and she turned away quickly, her own shy blush heating her face. Unspoken, they both arrived at the decision to dress with their backs to each other. She stood, reaching past him for her cloths and turning back to face away again. Trusting him not to turn around, she slipped her nightgown over her head and put on her undergarments. Jan's overly large cloths came next and she made a mental note to purchase some smaller garments now that she and Guilbert were sharing an room and, after she finally repaid Jan and Marta, would have a few groschen to spare.

"Sarah?" Guilbert's voice was soft.

"Yes?"

"Are you finished?"

"Yes."

"So am I."

Sarah turned slowly, glancing over her shoulder to see Guilbert doing the same. She stopped, facing him, staring at him. He strode towards her and reached past her, picking up the flat-cap that she'd dropped on the bed. He placed it on her head, carefully tucking in her strands of hair, his movements so delicate, the tenderness of it struck at her heart.

He smiled. "Ready?"

Feeling bold, she lifted herself onto her toes, leaning forward, grasping his arms and she kissed him. She stepped back. "Ready."


	64. The Bohemian, XI

**The Bohemian, XI**

Traces were all that was left of his former life, the life alone, the solitary wanderer, the lone drifter. In his very essence, he was the same man, but oh, how much had changed. Where once he thought he'd spend his life seeking out all of the truths in the sky, the limitless, boundless universe, he now found he held so much more in his possession. Something just as limitless, just as mysterious, had broken forth from his heart, a new truth, a new understanding, a song of life, not of the universe, but of this earth, this ground, well within his reach, a song that rested in his very arms.

On his departure from Pardubice, he'd never realized how much he'd miss her, need her. Now, holding her each night, waking to warmth and life and her each morning, he could scarcely believe how smitten he was. She was awe and wonder. She stole his breath. He wanted to know her, discover her, seep right into her and see her from the inside.

He could not stop watching her, for every facial expression was something to be catalogued. The passion he saw in her work, the same passion he felt himself, was visible in her every feature, the broad smile, her expressive eyes, shining with excitement, her radiance, lit from within. He was amongst his own here, a group of curious, brilliant individuals, all gathered to search out the truths of the stars and the planets, and she was the only one he wanted to share this with.

Guilbert glanced up at her from his work, catching her smile and returning it before forcing himself to look away. The ease with which they had settled into work and into their work personas was both surprising and reassuring. The people they worked with were none-the-wiser, at least about Sarah's identity. There was speculation, however, in regards to their relationship, no doubt amplified by the quick kiss Sarah, as Tomas, had pressed to his lips in the lab, though if that speculation went any further than whispered idol chat, it was not known.

Jiri, however, seemed utterly oblivious. Jiri had been far too busy and preoccupied, flitting around the lab or hanging outside the boarding house, reciting soft verses to an unknown woman to take much notice of anything else. He was obsessed to the point he almost believed that the girl he saw was merely a figment, a vision, sent to haunt him. So distracted was he in his pining that Jiri had failed to notice Tomas's room being let go, or how Tomas now entered Guilbert's room every night and left it every morning. It was with great disquiet that Guilbert watched Jiri pine for this mystery girl. Listening to the poetic words of love spoken by Jiri and addressed to a girl he had only seen fleetingly in the boarding house left Guilbert more than a little uneasy. He had his suspicions on the identity of the girl, though he left his suspicions unspoken, apprehensive about asking her. Jiri was so much better than he at expressing himself.

Guilbert glanced up at Sarah again. It was so difficult to be with her and express himself to her and even initiate anything with her beyond simple caresses and short, sweet kisses when others thought she was a boy, possibly speculated on what they did beyond the lab, and when he remembered that Jiri, three doors down, was likely dreaming about her. He needed to get away, to take her and let their love blossom without worry or interruption. Under the cloak of secrecy was no way to have a relationship.

While he worked, he let his mind pass through various proposals until he reached an idea. Kepler had offered him time to go to Pardubice. He wondered if Kepler would consider letting him go to Benatky nad Jizerou instead, to work, and take Tomas with him. They would have to leave soon, as autumn had firmly settled in, but he was sure that Kepler would allow him to get away sooner, if he could use the observatory Tycho Brahe to observe both the new star and Mars. Others had gone up and borrowed the space before. He and Sarah would be relatively alone, could work beneath the stars and be with each other in peace. His eyes lifted and found Sarah again, working with intensity and focus. The idea certainly bore considering.

He was silent on their walk back, ignoring Sarah's hesitant glances, focusing on his thoughts and the street ahead. Once they were tucked safely inside their room, he drew her into his arms, running his hands up and down her arms. Even now, he could scarcely believe he was allowed to touch her like this, to hold her and feel her, to kiss her. Taking a deep breath, he slipped off her flat cap, letting it fall to the floor and releasing her beautiful hair. His fingers played over the buttons of her doublet, threading each through its hole and delicately slipping the jacket from her shoulders, leaving her in only her chemise beneath. He was nearly breathless, as always, staring at her in the thin garment, so large on her, it looked as though the wide collar would slip from her shoulders and reveal what lie beneath. The doublet slipped from his fingers, and his hands were sliding up and down her arms again, happy to feel the warmth of her skin through the thin material beneath them.

The movement of his hands shifted the chemise to one side, and the collar fell over her shoulder, revealing the smooth skin beneath. He stared at her bare shoulder, her slender collarbone, the beauty of her delicate, graceful lines and his heart skipped a beat. His thumb grazed along her bare collarbone. Oh, to press a kiss there, to trace over that bone with his tongue. His glance peeked back up at her face to see her eyes, both shy and full of wonder, watching him, a hint of a smile playing over her lips. He needed her, all of her. His hands skimmed down her arms and he took her hands in his, lifting the delicate fingers and holding them between their bodies. "Sarah," he spoke softly, her name a sigh, and he stopped. He stepped towards her, lifting her hands so that they were trapped between her chest and his. "I've been thinking…"

He watched as Sarah waited, her expression transforming into one of apprehension. He smiled softly. "All good thoughts," he promised.

"Tell me."

"Maybe we should go away for awhile."

"What?" Sarah drew back, tugging her hands from his, but he held firm. "For only a short while, I promise. I thought we could travel up to Benatky nad Jizerou and study beneath the stars in the observatory Tycho Brahe built. I am sure Kepler can get Brahe's family's permission. We could return at the first snow and be back here in Prague before winter set in."

He tugged on Sarah's hands, drawing her closer again. "I want to spend some time alone with you." Sarah smiled. He took a small step closer, so that their chests were nearly pressed together, with their hands the only barrier. "And I want to marry you."

Sarah's hands were torn from his and were suddenly on his neck. She leaned forward, kissing him, her lips prying his open. When her tongue swept inside his mouth for the first time, he knew what bliss was. He closed his eyes. His hands fell to her waist, holding on as he kissed her the way she was kissing him. His hands moved to her back and began running up and down. He had to stop. He knew he had to stop. Pulling back, he stared at her, catching his breath. "Yes?"

She laughed and grinned. "Yes."

His lips turned up into a wide smile. Taking her hand, he led her to the bed, sitting on it and watching her follow suit. "We can speak to a priest tomorrow."

Sarah shook her head. "I can't see a priest dressed like this. There isn't a man in the cloth who would marry you to Tomas."

Guilbert smiled, lying down on the bed. He tugged on Sarah's hand, gazing at her as she laid opposite him, curled towards him, the knees of her breeches touching his. One hand curled beneath him, supporting his head, he let the other wander over her arm. "I don't want to marry Tomas. I want to marry Sarah. We'll get you a dress."

His hand fell to her waist, his fingers playing with the material of her chemise, bunched at her side, in the waistline of her breeches. Oh, how he wanted to inch the material from beneath those breeches and feel her skin, to reveal the maiden beneath the boy robes. Sarah, in all likelihood reading his thoughts, placed her hand over his, guiding it down to her stomach, allowing his fingertips to skate across her abdomen. He sucked in a breath and looked up at her. Sarah was looking at him, her expressive eyes dark, looking right into him. He knew she wanted him to touch her, but he could sense the apprehension as well. He sighed and slipped his hand from beneath hers, moving it to the small of her back, drawing her closer until their breaths mingled.

"We'll need a couple of people to stand for us, act as witnesses," he spoke softly.

Sarah nodded, her eyes full of worry. He knew the thoughts that troubled her. Who to ask? They could not ask anyone from the lab, for quickly their secret would be revealed.

Sarah surprised him. "What about my father?"

He frowned. It was likely that her father thought her still tucked away in a convent, worshipping with the Order of Carmelites. After the distress her father had caused…did Sarah still want him there? He shook his head. No, he saw the look in her eyes when she spoke of him. She was worried about the legitimacy of their marriage without his consent. Sarah was from a higher class and likely her father had entertained ideas of selling her in marriage, raised her to believe that was the way. "What about him? We don't need his permission to marry, Sarah."

"We don't?"

Guilbert's frown deepened. "No. Is that what you thought?"

"It's what he's taught me to believe, all my life."

Sighing, he ran his hand softly over her arm, giving her bicep a gentle squeeze. "The only thing needed, is our freely given consent to marry each other before a priest, and someone to stand for each of us."

"I knew I had to consent, but he'd taught me he had the right to deny me."

Guilbert shook his head at the irony, the staunch Catholic, misrepresenting the laws of marriage within the Church, especially after the Council of Trent reaffirmed them. "No. In the Protestant Churches, yes, but not in the Catholic Church. He can threaten you, but he could not stop you." Guilbert grew silent, wondering at how much to reveal and deciding that Sarah should hear all that had already passed between him and her father. "You know, before I left, I asked your father's permission, as a courtesy. He denied me our betrothal."

A frown shrouded over Sarah's own face. "But if we don't need his permission, why?" She stopped short, tears pooling in her eyes and concealing them.

"Did I leave?" he whispered, letting his hand drift to the corner of her eye and wiping away the tear.

She shook her head.

"Did I not ask you?"

Sarah nodded.

"He threatened to bring me up on charges of heresy."

"Oh, Guilbert."

He shook his head. "It matters not, any longer. You're here. You've consented, and your father is in Pardubice. If he were to discover you hadn't entered the convent and found you here, tried to interfere with our marriage, we have an argument on our side. New stars are born. The heavens aren't fixed. The Universe is changing. New ideas can arise and do not have to be in conflict with the Church. We are assistants to the Imperial Mathematician. Emperor Rudolf is a patron of our work. I believe I can fight a charge of heresy now. I know I don't want to go on without you."

Sarah nodded, shifting closer. There were still remnants of tears in her eyes when she closed them and rested her forehead against his. His own eyes closed. "About the witnesses…" he spoke softly.

"We'll do it before a couple of members of the Church."

Guilbert smiled softly, shifting down on the bed, letting forehead roll over hers until there noses touched. He tipped his chin forward and kissed her.

* * *

Over the course of her life, she'd never once imagined what it would feel like to wake a betrothed woman. She felt giddy, giddy and whole and wonderful and…cold. The lids of her eyes fluttered open and confusion settled in. She remembered drifting off into slumber, curled towards Guilbert, his fingers brushing over her spine, palm on her back, holding her to him, their legs entwined, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. She did not feel him get up, nor did she hear him leave, but he was gone. The other half of her bed was empty.

Her hand, which had been grasping his chemise in sleep, lay flat upon the mattress, feeling only a trace of warmth remaining. Her small fist reached up to rub the sleep from her eyes, and she sat up, wondering where he'd disappeared to. Slowly, she extended her arms outward, stretching out her muscles, and stood, glancing about the small room as though she expected him to magically appear.

Her eyes wandered over to the small desk and the pile of parchment. She eyed it curiously. In the days she'd spent living in the room, she'd never been in it alone. With Guilbert always there, she gave little thought to anything else, so wrapped up in him, absorbed by him, she was.

With him away now and not in occupation of all of her attention, she found her curiosity for the parchment returning. She approached the desk, her hand hovering over the parchment, hesitating in the air. She glanced down at the top sheet, stunned by what she saw, her name and nothing else. Slowly, she reached down and plucked the parchment from the pile.

_Sarah,_…and nothing, blank beyond her name. She placed it down on the desk and lifted the next sheet.

_Sarah,_

_Words fail me…_

Again, the rest of the page was blank. She set it down and picked up the next.

_Sarah, _

_I…_

Nothing.

She lifted the next.

_Sarah,_

_The words I've longed to say have died on this very page, before I could even begin to write them. How do I begin to express how much has changed in me, how much I've missed you?_

The next.

_Sarah,_

_As I write this I continue to reflect on my life here. I cannot tell you how inspiring it is to be amongst this group of men, refreshed, ready to begin anew, and yet, unable. I want to write about how much you'd love it here, but I fear it would only incite your anger at my leaving. I think of you often and wish you were here with me, always. I…_

Piece by piece, she read over each parchment, the beginnings of each letter, how hard he'd tried to reach out to her, to reveal his heart, only to concede to his limitations. Each letter seemed to get longer, the earliest attempts the longest, as though the more time that had passed, the greater was his struggle for words. There was such beauty in the awkward way he tried to express himself, in the struggle so obvious in his words, in the vulnerability he'd failed to conceal in each sentiment.

Sarah placed the last sheet of parchment down and laid her hand over it, glancing to the door. She missed him, wanted him to hold her, to reassure her that this was real and to allow her to reassure him, to soothe the worries that plagued them both. Her hand left the parchment and she knelt to the floor, lifting her doublet from where Guilbert had dropped it the night before. Pulling it on, she did not bother with the buttons, but reached for her flat cap and haphazardly placed it on her head, tucking in errant strands of her long hair as she moved.

Just outside the house, Jiri stood, resting his hand against the wall, his mind elsewhere as he voiced his waking thoughts to the city. Sarah paused in the doorway.

"Oh mysterious maiden, mine girl, mine ghost, mine love,  
Step out from the shadows so I may look upon thy pale form, thy slender body, thy silhouette.  
Breathe the air I breathe and let me see thy radiance.  
Oh ghost, sweet ghost, give me but a name so I may call to you.  
Breathe it to me so I may whisper it and listen to it echo in the night.  
Speak, so I may listen to your words, your voice, with reverence.  
Appear, so I may worship you."

Her chin tucked against her chest, hoping to pass by him without notice, she stepped past him.

"Tomas."

Sarah stopped, looking back, careful not to meet his eyes. "Good morrow, Jiri."

"Have you seen her?"

His voice was laced with desperation. She tried not to cringe, to groan, or to laugh, even. Taking a moment to answer, she steadied her voice. "Who?"

"My phantom, my vision, my love." Jiri slumped back against the wall. "She is an apparition and the memory of her haunts me. Oh, to express how it aches to love a ghost."

"A ghost?"

"Ah," Jiri sighed, his voice quiet and solemn. "She is a pale figure, appears and disappears, an angel, or, could it be possible, a demon? It is devilish trickery to have seen her, for she has caused this heart only pain, and yet…yet, yet, her vision is a balm to my soul."

"Jiri," Sarah sighed, "perhaps it is time you stop pining for this ghost. Choose a girl who…can return your love."

Jiri's head shook sadly. "It is too late; she is already in possession of my heart."

She let out another sigh and turned back to the street.

"Tomas?"

She froze, his tone creating a surge of apprehension within her. "Yes?"

"Guilbert asked that if I saw you, to let you know that he'd be back shortly."

"Oh." She paused. "Thank you."

"Are the two of you going to the court?"

Sarah turned back to Jiri, watching him pause and sigh and glance around the street. He pushed himself from the wall, his normally jovial tone returning. "Maybe we could all go to the bathhouse and get a steam bath."

"Uh, no, my apologies."

"It's probably just as well." Jiri looked back to the street and then to the door of the boarding house, maintaining his vigil. She ducked her head and stepped past him again, reentering the house. She'd wait for Guilbert in their room, away from Jiri's pledges of adoration.

When Guilbert did return, it was with a frown etched upon his face. He closed the door behind him before turning to her, seated on the bed. "He's in love with you."

Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. "Who?" she asked, though she knew, and she could see that he knew, she knew.

"Jiri," he responded, though they both knew it was not needed.

Sarah eyed Guilbert, stunned by his perception, though she did not know why she should be. She'd learned long before, not to underestimate him. Though he had initially been fooled by her disguise, he was normally very astute in his observations. Perhaps he'd only been trying to protect himself in letting himself believe she was Tomas.

Guilbert was watching her. Finally she scoffed. "Not love, but infatuation. How can he love a girl he has never heard speak?"

Guilbert approached her slowly. "He's heard you speak," he whispered, softly.

"He's heard Tomas speak." She reached up and grasped his hand, peeking up at him to meet his eyes. "And pray, tell me, what does he think of Tomas?"

Guilbert smiled, sitting next to her. "Clever boy, full of wit, pretty youth."

"Does he love the pretty youth?"

Guilbert shook his head. "No, he's not very interested in the youth."

"But you were…"

The sight of his smile growing and his eyes piercing into hers had her stomach flipping.

"I was, as interested as I'd been in only one other person before, of the opposite persuasion, mysteriously enough."

She swooned. "That is something more akin to…" Sarah stumbled over the words, "love."

"Indeed." His voice was low, right next to her ear and she shivered.

Sarah looked away, unable to endure the weight of his intense look, his stare that seemed to penetrate her soul and see her hidden desires, her yearning for him. It was silent and she glanced back, watching Guilbert fumble with a package in his hands.

He glanced up at her, the darkened eyes gone, replaced by flitting, timid ones. "Speaking of Tomas, do you think he'd like to change out of those mannish clothes and put on a dress?"

Her eyes lit. "Truly?"

"You need something to see a priest in."

Sarah watched as he pulled out a frock, simple, plain, a deep brown, would fall over her frame and not be held into shape with a corset or a farthingale, and though it was not stylish, that suited her. She'd hated wearing corsets and farthingales growing up. She would have much preferred the comfort of a country maiden's frock.

"It's not nearly as elaborate as the dresses other women wear to court, more for a shepherd's wife, but…" She stopped him with a hand on his arm. Taking his hand and easing it from the dress, she grasped the garment with her free hand and held it up. "It's lovely."

"It's all we could spare. I would have taken you and let you choose a garment, only I wanted us to see the priest as soon as possible, but I did not want to wake you. Besides, two boys buying a dress would look even odder than one, especially when the dress is for one of those boys. When we pass by the shops, you can buy another if you like. You'll likely need a second…" He stopped, glancing up at her. "You don't mind it?"

"It's fine. Thank you."

"And you're alright with its simplicity?"

"More than." She smirked. "Besides, I don't mind looking like a shepherd's wife when you look more like a shepherd than a man of the court, yourself.


	65. The Bohemian, XII

**The Bohemian, XII**

A yellowish stain stood out against the white wall. His eyes focused on it, on the line of it running jaggedly up towards the window. He'd spent many hours focused on the same line before, wondering what it was, how it came to be, an so on. Since Sarah had moved into the small room, her beautiful body capturing all of his attention in their private moments, he had stopped staring at the stain or wondering about its existence. Now, he was back to staring at it, trying not think about what was going on behind him, Sarah changing from Jan's old rags to the newly purchased frock.

He listened for the sound of her voice, waiting for her to tell him she was done, but it was her hand, landing softly on his shoulder that had him turning from the stain to face her.

His breath caught at the sight. Sarah stepped back, her arms held out, a question in her eyes. He wanted to smile, to speak, but found himself frozen in position. The dress, though simple, was simply lovely on her. Unlike the dresses in fashion at the present, all of which belled out below the waist and hid the lower portion of the woman's figure, the garment he purchased for Sarah fell over Sarah's frame, flowing freely over her legs and displayed her slender form. Coupled with the glow and the happiness in her eyes, she was absolutely beautiful. Sarah as a country maiden was as lovely a vision as he'd ever seen.

A hand on the small of her back, he guided her out of their room, through the hall, down the steps, to the entrance of the boarding house. Through the door, they could hear Jiri's voice, still calling out proclamations of devotion, and they both stilled. Guilbert's hand dropped from Sarah's back. He turned his face to hers and studied her. Her eyes held a tinge of fear, and he knew she did not want to be discovered. He sighed. "I'll see if I can distract him so that you can slip by."

Sarah nodded, stepping behind the door as he opened it.

"Jiri," he spoke, his tone soft and cautious, catching Jiri's attention. "Are you going into the lab today?"

Jiri's eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, yes, presently. And you?"

Guilbert shook his head, stepping around Jiri so that Jiri had to place his back to the door in order to converse with Guilbert. "Not today. I have some errands that require my attention."

"Oh? You aren't teaching today?"

"No, no," he replied, eyeing the door. "I just have some pressing engagements." He glanced past Jiri's shoulder, watching as Sarah slipped by.

From his peripheral, he could see Jiri glance at his eyes and follow his gaze, Jiri's head turning to glance behind him, just in time to see Sarah disappear around the corner. "My ghost," he gasped, spinning around to the corner.

Guilbert moved beside Jiri, looking where Jiri was looking. "Who?" he asked, feigning unawareness.

Jiri's eyes stayed focused on the building, his neck craning to look around the corner. Jiri shook his head. "I think my mind is playing tricks on me. I should go into the lab now."

Guilbert nodded. He waited for Jiri to step inside the boarding house before following after Sarah.

Away from the boarding house and the lab, they were anonymous persons, blending in with the others walking the street, unknown, unheard of, unconcerned. Taking Sarah's hand in his, Guilbert felt immense pleasure at the freedom to grasp her hand, to hold her, to break their relationship free of the confines of their little rented room.

They strolled through the streets, stepping along the cobblestone alleys of the court and passing the eclectic group of transients who'd all gathered in the city court. Each person was a sight to behold, the drifters singing songs, playing their instruments, reciting verses, the wandering troubadours plying their trades, mystics and gypsies calling out calling out promises to read into their futures. Each corner exhibited a new traveler, a musician, astrologer, an artist, a poet. Listening to the songs and sonnets as they passed by, Guilbert felt the irrepressible yearning to possess even just half the gift of poetry and tongue these other men held, longing only for enough of the gift to be granted the ability to better express his thoughts to Sarah.

Watching her eyes flit about from one performer to another, fascination and glee in her features, he wished, briefly, to have the ability to add his voice to this group of people, to awe Sarah and bring about her delight. Apparently his thoughts were not much dissimilar to Sarah's. She stopped beside him, tugging on his hand and stopping him as well. An eyebrow raised, he turned to face her.

Sarah smirked at him. "You're a clever boy, blessed with wit, Guilbert," she challenged. "Recite something."

He sighed. "Oh, that I was able."

Her eyebrow rose.

He was hesitant, but wanted to indulge her. He thought a moment, and decided the attempt would be his wedding gift to her, though he shuddered to think about how well it would turn out. He'd almost abandoned the idea, but one glance at Sarah's eager face and he sighed. "Forgive the poor quality of my attempt."

Sarah smiled and moved to face him directly, her eyes watching him with great intent. His mind scanned through the words and thoughts in his head and he took a deep breath.

"O, that fickle hand of fate,  
What Venus gives, an' take away."

He paused, watching her watch him, beautiful brown eyes smiling softly, and continued again.

"Ah, that crafty hand of fate,  
To test that bond and make it wait."

He stepped closer to Sarah, the back of his fingers grazing over her cheek. His voice lowered.

"O, that blessed hand of fate,  
To return that love a later date."

Leaning in, he whispered, "Foolish the man to tempt that fate."

Sarah's hand was on his chest, her fingers curled so that only the tips touched. Her wide, expressive brown eyes stared up at him. "Guilbert?"

"Yes?"

"Where is the church?"

He smiled, stepping back, feeling her fingers fall from his chest. Tugging on her hand, he pulled her along. "Just around the corner."

They hurried around the corner, smiling as they approached the large chapel. He felt Sarah pause beside him, and gave her hand a gentle tug, leading her inside, past the pews, to an office to the right of the pulpit.

The door to the office was half open and when Guilbert snuck a peek inside, he could see a priest seated at a desk. With his free hand, Guilbert knocked softly on the door, waiting for admittance before leading Sarah inside.

"What is it?" the priest asked, his tone abrupt.

"Father," Guilbert began, glancing briefly at Sarah beside him. "We'd like to marry."

The priest looked up, eyebrows raised. "Would you?"

Guilbert squeezed Sarah's hand. "Yes."

"Is this your parish?"

"We live here now."

"We?"

Guilbert nodded slowly.

"Humph," the priest growled, eying them. "We don't attend to clandestine marriages here."

"It is not clandestine. We both freely give our consent."

"And the girl's parents?"

"That matters not."

The priest fixed his steely gaze on Guilbert. "Have you taken this girl to your bed, had relations, committed foul, carnal acts with her, defiled her?"

"No!" he cried, feeling Sarah tense beside him. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. The priest behaved and spoke like Sarah's father. Guilbert frowned and then sighed. "Is there anyone else we could speak with?"

"I am the Parish Priest. If you want the marriage to be valid, you must speak to me. Now, have her parents consented?"

"She has consented. The rest matters not."

"And when the Banns are read the next three consecutive services, in both this parish and the parishes of your baptisms, there will be none that will object?"

Guilbert paused, knowing he must be honest. "We were hoping to ask the Bishop to dispense with the Banns. Sarah's father would object."

"Humph!" The priest growled again, speaking in a tone that did not conceal his scorn or contempt. "And you say this is not clandestine? Have you abducted this girl, taken her from her family and defiled her?"

"No!" He halted in his objections, knowing he had to calm himself. He could feel Sarah growing angry and dismayed beside him. He had to speak before Sarah erupted on the priest. "Sarah came on her own accord. To publish the Banns in the parish of her baptism, would allow her father to interfere. We will swear an oath that there are no other impediments to our marriage, but we will not consent to a Bann being read in Sarah's baptismal parish."

"Then I will not consent to marry you. Leave. Get thee sinful creatures from my Church!"

"Come," Guilbert whispered to Sarah, pulling her from the Father's office. They moved through the church, towards the back, to a set of stairs, slowly climbing down, counting each step as he passed. He continued to hold Sarah's hand, softly intoning words of reassurance.

* * *

The tears she fought to hold back stung at her eyes. That priest, that horrible, horrible, priest, speaking to them as though they were involved in some illicit affair, as though Guilbert was not a man of pride and virtue, but of a vile and loathsome nature, deserving only of mistrust. That they were not honest, were hiding something, concealing something, that Guilbert would consent to something so fraudulent was an absurd notion.

Sarah stepped past the pews, feeling her life was in fragments, toiling to piece together, to be with Guilbert, to break away from her father's hold and influence. To marry, in any parish, the priest would publish the Banns in the parish of her baptism, where it was sure her father would interfere, would speak of impediments, embellish them if need be, for certainly he was capable of it, to besmirch Guilbert's character, and even, possibly, accuse Guilbert of abducting her. The coldness of her father's heart frightened her, knowing he was capable of great malevolence, all in the name God, and incapable of God's forgiveness. Guilbert would take the blame for her escape. Even now, so far away, her father would not let her be. The very thought of him…

She didn't need to marry Guilbert. She trusted him to be with her always, to share his life with her, be faithful to her. She wanted to marry him though, to belong to him as he to her, mind, body and soul, to know, to truly know, he would be with her always. She didn't want their relationship to be thought of as degrading, to be cheapened by closed minded ideas that came with unmarried persons living and sharing a life.

They stepped out of the church, climbing down the steps, her hand clasped in Guilbert's. He placed a soft kiss upon her forehead. "We don't need this," he whispered, softly.

Sarah nodded, his tenderness causing her tears to spring forth. Guilbert's grasp on her hand tightened and she felt herself being drawn to him, tucked into his side. His mouth was along her hairline. "I am yours, Sarah, always," he whispered into her hair, "I pledge myself to you."

His other arm came around her, enfolding her in his embrace. She turned her head towards his, tilting her chin up to look at him. "And I to you."

"Let's go home."

Sarah nodded, pulling back from him, but keeping her hand within his. The walked along the cobblestone streets, arms brushing, shoulders occasionally bumping. The walk was slow, their moods solemn, passing the artists and poets, musicians and gypsies with silence. The court and all of its interesting characters held their interest no longer. Sarah stopped only when Guilbert did, finding herself in front of a vendor, but turning down his suggestion of food despite the knowledge that food had not yet passed her lips that morning. She simply couldn't eat.

Everything around her, apart from the warmth of Guilbert's hand, seemed distant. She felt in a trance, watching her feet take each step, eying the cobblestone as she passed over it, unmindful of her location or where Guilbert was leading her. Guilbert stopped again and she lifted her gaze from the cobblestone. Her eyes landed upon an aging friar and a sister only a few years his junior, doling out food to the impoverished lined up on the street. She watched the kind man hand out meals with a warm smile. He looked up from his work to see Sarah's tear-stained face. "Is there something I can help you with? Are you in need of food?"

Sarah shook her head, vaguely aware Guilbert was making the same motions next to her. The friar furrowed his brow and slowly approached. "Why the eyes red, my child?"

Deep within her, she felt the friar's warmth and kinship. She felt another tear well up and fall. Guilbert squeezed her hand. Grateful, she returned the gesture before her wide, scrutinizing eyes met with the old man's questioning gaze. For reasons unbeknownst to herself, she decided to answer the man's question.

"We want to marry, but cannot."

There was understanding and compassion in the friar's return gaze. She watched as he placed down his offerings and finished his approach. "And why is that?"

Sarah stared at the aging friar, hesitant to reveal much, but feeling almost compelled to speak to this odd man. The friar's warmth, his slow approach, his care, was welcome after the last man of cloth they'd spoken to. She felt Guilbert give her hand another squeeze and knew this man could do no worse than the priest before, and, if it were possible he could, she would still have Guilbert. Taking a few measured breaths, she explained how the priest treated their request to marry, and the subsequent refusal. Taking utmost care of her words, she did not mention what the reading of the Banns would mean. As she spoke, she felt Guilbert tug her a little closer and she tucked herself into his side. She finished and glanced down, waiting for another misfortune.

"Ah." Sarah felt the friar's eyes on her. "Do you give your consent freely?"

"Yes," she spoke softly, solemnly.

"And your parents?"

Sarah shook her head. "They are in Pardubice."

"I urge you to request their consent."

Again Sarah shook her head. Guilbert ran his thumb over her hand. He turned to the friar. "It is not needed."

"No, but still encouraged. I take it you believe they will not consent."

Guilbert shook his head. "They will not."

"But you give yours freely?"

"I do."

The friar nodded. "You are both baptized?"

"Yes," the both answered, simultaneously.

The friar turned again to Sarah. "Your parents are in Pardubice?"

She nodded.

"But you have left."

She nodded again.

"One could call you a vagrant? A girl without a parish?"

Sarah eyed the friar, her eyes narrowing as she studied the gentle man. "Yes," she replied slowly.

"Will you confess your sins and receive the Eucharist?"

"Yes."

"And you will allow the Banns to be read in the parish of your baptism?"

Sarah watched as Guilbert stepped forward, his hands coming together, fingertips touching. "We were hoping you could you dispense with them. Sarah's father strongly disapproves of me. If he were to find out, he would attempt to spoil the contract."

The friar nodded. Guilbert returned to Sarah's side, drawing her close, the warmth of his chest on her shoulder, offering his undying support. She felt the friar study both Guilbert and her. He nodded again, placing his hand on her shoulder. Her eyes shot to the ground. "I will marry you."

Sarah's gaze lifted and her brown eyes stared into icy blue ones. "You will?"

The friar nodded. "You give your consent freely?"

"Yes."

She watched as he turned to Guilbert. "And you?"

Guilbert nodded. "I do."

The friar's eyes were scrutinizing them again. "You have thought this over with a sound mind?"

"We have."

"And you will take an oath that there are no other impediments to the marriage, apart from this young lady's father's difference of mind?"

Guilbert answered for her. "We will."

"I will need to speak to you individually."

"Of course."

Sarah felt herself being drawn away and responding to the same questions, the friar's eyes intent on her as she answered. She waited while he did the same with Guilbert and returned him to her side. The friar, now Friar Dominik to them, gave them each a soft, compassionate look. "Without the reading of the Banns, the marriage could be deemed questionable to some, though in God's eyes, you will be married."

Again Guilbert responded. "We understand."

"Then come children, and you shall be married. Sister Leona will be witness." And that was the end of the interrogation. "Are you serious? In your hearts, are you serious? In your minds? You have no others? You'll have no others. You will love, honor and cherish each other?"

Friar Dominik left them alone again, walking over to the sister and whispering softly to her. Sarah watched as the sister glanced up at them, nodding and at once, Sarah felt like theirs was not the only secret marriage these people attended to. The irony struck at her. By refusing to marry Guilbert and Sarah in what he called a clandestine fashion, the priest had all but ensured it, sending them into the waiting hands of an understanding friar and his collaborating, aiding nun.

Friar Dominik spoke to another man, this one in rags, receiving sustenance. The nearly emaciated man gave a toothy smile and Friar Dominik returned, leading the band away.

Holding onto Guilbert's hand, Sarah followed Friar Dominik through the streets, stopping before Prague Castle and an astoundingly large Cathedral, St. Vitus, unfinished, but more than capable of inspiring awe none-the-less.

She glanced at Guilbert, staring at her, in awe of the softness and the reverence in his gaze. This was what it was like to be adored, and more than that, what it was like to be adored by the very man she adored. Knowing she was about to marry him, to spend her life with him, had her stomach fluttering, anxious and excited and aware that the moment they were joined could not come soon enough. She turned back to the imposing Cathedral, the monumental mastery, and she stepped forward.

Together they entered the Cathedral, walking through a courtyard before coming to the golden portal, the entrance to St. Wenceslas Chapel. She stepped into the doorway, staring at the grandness and exquisiteness of the chapel. The inside, though obviously having been ravaged by fire, was still as impressive as the outside, the high ceiling and double ribs of the vault crossing diagonally and giving the appearance of a large net, the magnificent pillars, the gems adorning the walls, the tomb of St. Wenceslas, the intricate frescoes depicting the life of St. Wenceslas, even the damaged monuments of the Hussites's rampaging attention, not yet replaced. Sarah stared in awe at the chapel, both beautiful and imposing, listening to Guilbert whisper its history in her ear.

St. Wenceslas's Chapel was empty, apart from her and Guilbert, Friar Dominik, and the two witnesses he'd gathered, five small figures, dwarfed by the immense room. Still clasping Guilbert's hand, she slowly walked down the row of pews, around the tomb of St. Wenceslas, and kneeled before the altar, feeling so small and insignificant and slightly uncomfortable, but for the friar's warmth and the presence of Guilbert, her love, beside her.

A few soft words were spoken, a passage read from the Holy book, and she turned, staring into Guilbert's eyes, her hands small in his, softly reciting her solemn and sacred vows. She listened as he repeated them, just as softly, staring into her eyes and she took in the measure of each of his breaths as they spoke the most beautiful words. The Friar pronounced them married and she was met with a kiss, sealing their union. The tenderness of his kiss struck at her and her eyes fluttered closed. When they opened, she stared at the boy, this man, her husband.


	66. The Bohemian, XIII

**The Bohemian, XIII**

_Sarah is with me. Sarah is with me. Sarah promised herself to me, pledged herself to me, vowed to be with me_. The words kept running in circles through his head as he led her from the Cathedral, this girl, this beauty, his wife.

Passing by the minstrels and troubadours, faint attention paid to the songs coming from their lutes, he guided Sarah to the market. Apart from breaking bread and a long sip of wine, neither had taken any sustenance all morning. It was now well into the afternoon and he knew he needed to get her something to eat. His hand on Sarah's back, fingers and palm taking in the warmth of her, Guilbert led Sarah through the market, picking up food to sample, and snacks to take with them on their journey the next day. He leaned close to his beloved as she lifted and examined each piece of fruit, breathing in her scent and letting it mingle with the scent of produce around them.

Once outside the market, he led Sarah across the court to the river and guided her to sit along the side edge of Stone Bridge, looking out over the river. Setting himself across from her, he let one leg dangle over the side and crossed the other in front of him. Shifting closer, he handed her an apple, watching as she took the fruit, her hand lingering in his, eyes gazing into his. He smiled and her hand, with apple, withdrew. Taking slow bites of his own apple, he looked on as Sarah took her first bite into her own, the backdrop of the river behind her, the picture of his wife in this moment as lovely a scene as he'd ever witnessed.

He ate slowly, letting the afternoon pass. On their way home, they stopped by Friar Dominik's makeshift mission, dropping off what they could spare for food for the impoverished under the Friar's care, the donation of food for the hungry, the only payment Friar Dominik would take. Guilbert's sincerest thanks went out to the Friar again, and to his two witnesses, Sister Leona, and Vilem, the impoverished, illiterate witness, a man who could only record his role as witness with a mark upon the paper. One last stop at a workshop to pick up instruments Kepler asked them to take along to Benatky nad Jizerou to use to help with their measurements, and then they were home, in their room, man and wife.

The day, its ups and downs, the promise of Sarah having nearly been taken from him and later returned, was long. In his mind, he could not escape the knowledge that what they had hung precariously in the balance between old doctrine and new, open to dispute by those who would want to dispute it. Knowing this, he only wanted to take Sarah to bed, be with her, hold her tightly to him and again reassure himself that she was his as he was hers.

He stood across from her, staring at her as she looked away shyly and then returned her stare to his. He could see her breaths deep but uneven as he felt his breaths speed up. The late afternoon sunlight was filtering in through the window, bathing Sarah in its light and he stepped towards her, his heart now pounding in his chest. His hands skimmed over her arms, and he wanted to pull her to him, to press her to him, but she stepped back several steps, one arm held out, gently shaking her head. Yearning for her, he waited, very uncomfortable, and unsure of what she wanted to do. Her hands reached behind, to her back and he watched as her arms dropped to her side and the dress fell from her frame, leaving her in only her undergarments.

His breaths hitched and he took in the sight of her, standing before him in nothing more than a delicate, feminine chemise, far more revealing than the male, oversized one she wore, along with the oversized, masculine drawers, as Tomas. Slowly, still staring at her, he began to unbutton his doublet, taking small steps towards her. Pulling the doublet from his frame, he threw it aside. His boots, breeches and hose followed, slowly peeling the garments from his body as Sarah's wide brown eyes stared on, watching him with the same intent look he had fixed on her. His chemise came off, leaving him bare-chested and in nothing more than a pair of ratty old linen drawers.

Taking the last step, he placed his hands on his wife's waist, his thumb brushing over the soft linen over her hips. Sarah's hands played tentatively over his chest, and he closed his eyes as fingers danced and palms rubbed. His body jerked and arms pulled her into his chest. The material at her hips was scrunched up in his fist. Arms coming around her, he lifted her, laying her out on the bed, pushing aside the invading thoughts of Jiri dreaming of doing the same a few rooms away.

Guilbert kneeled above her, dipping down and pressing his lips to the linen on her chest, attempting to feel her pulse upon those lips. One hand released the fabric at her hips and pulled down on her collar, giving room to place his lips to her skin upon her breastbone, but he still could not feel the tapping of her heart upon his lips, could feel nothing but the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the sounds of her uneven, hitched breaths, the light gasps escaping her lips. Lying out above her, supporting his weight on one knee and one elbow, his lips moved across her skin, over her collarbone, to her neck, and back down to her breastbone just above the collar of her chemise. His fists grasped onto the material again, ready to peel it off of her, but Sarah's hands, which had been wandering over his back, fell to her side and he stopped. Guilbert lifted his head to see Sarah's eyes fluttering open and closed, the battle to stay awake after the long day obvious in her features. Letting out a gentle sigh, he lifted himself off her and sat down beside her, gazing down at her. Her hand lifted and fell and he knew how very tired she was. Staring down at her, his fingers played through her strands of hair, brushing each errant strand away from her face. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in a light, tender kiss and sighed again. Their consummation would have to wait.

For awhile he just gazed down at her, his fingers playing through her strands of hair, watching her eyes continue to flutter open and closed. Sarah attempted to protest a few times, her hands lifting to run over his leg, attempting to draw his hands back to her body, but her protests died in her fatigue, her hands falling back to side, her eyes drifting closed again. He smiled softly, faintly amused, allowing her protests to die, knowing they had a long journey in the morning. When her brown eyes flitted shut for the last time, he lay beside her, pulling her to him, wrapping his body around hers and holding her, letting his hand glide over the smooth fabric of her chemise. Burying his face into the curve of her neck and shoulder, he pulled her tightly against his chest and let his eyes drift shut, succumbing to slumber.


	67. The Bohemian, XIV

**The Bohemian, XIV**

The cart rolled along the meandering Jizerou, crossing over hill after hill, the up and down motion jerking the passengers perched upon sacks of flour. It had been some time since they last stopped to rest and eat, not since passing over the small stone bridge crossing the Labe. The stretch of road they were now on, despite its proximity to the river, was a narrow stretch of very dry dirt and dust kicked up with each cycle of the wheel, with each step taken by each horse. Guilbert let out a few coughs, hoping to clear the itch in his throat without waking the boy-girl beside him.

If the driver of the cart wanted to say something about the boy who'd been resting against Guilbert the entire trip up to that point, he kept it to himself. Sarah, dressed as Tomas for the journey, was curled into Guilbert's side. Her dainty hand rested upon his chest, while he let his fingertips wisp away the strands of hair peeking out beneath her flat cap. Uncaring, for the moment, about how odd it may look, Guilbert tilted his head forward and placed a light kiss upon her brow. The driver kept his eyes forward.

The cart ride to Benatky nad Jizerou had been arranged by Kepler. Tucked in amongst various supplies heading out from the city to the country, were the supplies they, themselves, were bringing. Guilbert had wrapped the new instruments for the observatory inside his and Sarah's travel belongings, adding further shelter by wrapping the bundle in a couple of blankets. Aside, on his person, he kept their food for the trip and a letter from Kepler, stating that Emperor Rudolf II, who had retaken possession of the castle after Tycho Brahe's death, had granted Guilbert and Tomas permission to use the observatory.

Guilbert sighed as he watched the countryside roll by. He looked down at Sarah sleeping again and wondered at her fatigue. All day she'd been dozing on and off. Early that morning, he'd woken to her still asleep, head on his chest, curled sideways on the bed, her knees below his hand. Wanting to stay with her in bed all day, but knowing that the cart was schedule to pick them up very shortly, he had held the image of her in that position in his head before reluctantly shaking her awake. After waking her, he'd fed her, and then they were on their way. She'd remained awake for only a short time, the rocking motion of the cart on the roads leading out of Prague putting her fast to sleep. From then on, she'd been in and out of slumber, waking for their rest stops, water for the horses, for a small snack where the Jizerou flows into the Labe. Now, she was asleep again and he felt a short pang of worry for the normally restless girl. Rationalizing, he conjured up many plausible reasons, settling on one with hopeful finality. Surely it was the lack of food the day before and the little they nibbled on through the current day that had drained her of her energy. The day before, they'd had nothing to eat apart from the fruit sampled upon Stone Bridge, only slightly less than what they'd indulged in this current day, and while he would not complain and neither would Sarah, he knew she required more than a morsel of fruit to sustain her.

Sarah shivered beside him and he drew her in closer, running his hand up and down her arm. The air was wet with moisture as dusk began to settle in, the moon visible, the stars not yet. In the near distance, Guilbert could make out the vague outline of buildings, a few small houses, but more apparent and of more interest, the silhouette, almost menacing in appearance, of a castle, perched high upon rock. It was the dusk that conjured up the unsettling feeling as he stared at the castle, he was sure of it, for the castle, the tower converted into an observatory, was to be his redemption, his beginning for him and his bride. In the haze, all of Bohemia's castles looked foreboding. The walled fortifications of his childhood, the ones he used to gaze at and wonder at in Nymburk certainly had conjured up that same image.

The driver steered the cart past the houses, pushing the horses to carry them up the hill towards the castle. As they neared, Guilbert could make out the lines of the large building, not really a castle in character, but still immensely large and formidable upon approach. The observatory, tall, imposing in its height, standing guard above the building made his hands tremble, not out of fear but of opportunity. It was the observatory that had given the building that daunting look in the distant haze. He held his breath as the cart slowed to a stop, the horses' nostrils flaring out and sounding their arrival. The driver dismounted, offering to be the one to request audience with the caretaker at the gate, leaving Guilbert to wake his sleeping companion.

Guilbert gently shook Sarah, watching her eyes flutter open and shut and then open again. Her hand lifted to her brow, twisting as her thumb ran over her eyelid. Guilbert smiled as she stretched that arm out and placed her hand back on his chest, pushing herself up and off of him. "Have we arrived?"

"We have."

Sarah sat up straighter. He could see her eyes moving to him, to the castle and then to the empty seat at the front of the cart. She turned back to him, the line of her brow visibly furrowed in the dark. "And?"

"The driver is delivering our letter to the caretaker of the estate. We'll know shortly."

"Very well," and Sarah fell back against him, her eyes closing.

Tired himself, he fought off slumber as he held her, waiting for the driver to return with the caretaker. When the caretaker came out to meet the cart, he exchanged only a few words with Guilbert before nodding and beckoning the two young men to follow him to the observatory.

Guilbert nudged Sarah, gently easing her off of him. He rose and stepped down from the cart, holding out his arms to help Sarah down, lifting her beneath the armpits and slowly lowering her down, holding her slim form dressed in male garb, in his hands, even as her feet were planted solidly on the ground. Suddenly aware that his hands had lingered on her long enough, he turned abruptly, walking around the cart to retrieve their belongings.

Sarah following closely behind him, her hand occasionally reaching out to lightly touch his back, he carried the blanket wound sack of their possessions to the dauntingly tall observatory. Inside the entrance, he was met with a narrow, winding staircase, the steps seemingly endless. He hadn't felt the burden of his fatigue before then, but now, staring up at that tremendous staircase, he felt his sudden exhaustion almost overwhelming. Pausing, he felt Sarah's warmth on his back, her fingertips behind his shoulder, breath on his neck. Taking a deep breath and heaving up the blanketed sack, he placed his foot upon the first step and lifted his body. One by one, his weary body conquered each step. The day had been long, and, after watching over Sarah's sleeping form all day, he was worn with fatigue. Finally the end seemed near and he summoned his last ounces of strength to carry him up the remaining flight.

Inside the room at the top of the tower, he placed his bundle on the floor and took the torch the caretaker had been carrying for him. Apart from a few now antiquated instruments and a couple of desks, the large, round room was empty. Handing the torch to Sarah, he moved to one of the large, open windows to glance out at the startlingly clear sky and the multitude of stars now decorating it. For moments, he just leaned against the window frame, staring out at the night sky. It darkened and he could feel Sarah move behind him, her arms circling around him, her chin on his shoulder. Slowly he turned to face her, noticing in the darkness that she had laid out a bed at the far end of the room. He held her in his embrace, his fingers running up and down the length of her spine. Slowly dipping his head to kiss her, he let out a yawn and pulled back, sighing. Sarah's hands came to cheeks and she pulled his head down to rest his forehead upon hers. He smiled, placing his arms around her, yawning again and knowing he was far too tired to do anything but sleep. Turning his head to take one last wistful glance at the stars, he stepped out of Sarah's embrace and took her hand, pulling her towards the bed.

Tugging her to the floor, her tucked her small frame in between the blankets before joining her beneath the top two, removing his doublet in the process. He gathered her body to his chest and closed his eyes.

* * *

They had much work assigned to them during their days in Benatky nad Jizerou, but when Guilbert woke, Sarah still slumbering in his arms, he only wanted to linger on the floor, holding her and watching her. He indulged, gazing down at the girl who was now his wife. It was something he'd longed to do the day before, but in the hurry to leave and be on their way, he'd never gotten the chance.

The tips of his fingers grazed over the side of her face and Sarah's eyes fluttered open. Her hand, slow but immediate, came up to grasp the collar of his chemise and he leaned forward, kissing her softly. Pulling back, he let his quickening breaths ease, watching Sarah do the same. Her hand cupped his cheek, her long, lean fingers trailing over his skin and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Tentatively, he reached up and fingered the buttons of her doublet, slowly threading each button through its hole. Buttons undone, he parted the doublet, pushing the jacket over her shoulders.

A hand pressing softly upon her shoulder, he rolled her onto her back. Pushing himself up onto his elbow, he ran his hand over her side, listening to her sighs and watching the small tremble she let out, staring into her eyes as she gazed up at him. He lifted himself over her, taking one knee and nudging it between her legs in order to lie closer, and then leaned down to kiss her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sarah's hands lift and try to touch him, her doublet caught on her arms and in the way. Her hands lifted again, only able to catch his hips and he let out a groan. His hands on her side, he gave a light tug up on her body, waiting for it to lift from the floor so that he could pull the doublet from her arms and free them. He threw the doublet aside and grasped Sarah's waist again, tugging the chemise free of her breeches, his hands landing on the soft skin beneath, thumbs brushing up and down over her hips.

Sarah lay back on the floor, her wide eyes staring up at him, her fingers now playing freely over his forearms, grasping and releasing, gliding up and down, the feel of her hands an unintentional seduction, the movement encouraging. He felt nervous, but sure. Oh, how he wanted her.

Still staring into her eyes, Guilbert slowly pushed the chemise up the length of her torso, finding the back dragging along the blanket beneath them. He slid down her body, kissing her flat stomach as his palms moved up her sides, his fingers just beneath her back, pushing up at the chemise where it remained uncooperative.

Sarah's hands were no longer on his forearms, but running through his hair, pressing his face to her stomach. Her abdomen lifted to his lips. He kissed higher, inching the chemise up with his nose. He began kissing lower again, Sarah's soft moans stirring him further. Her hands landed on his arms again, urging them to move on her. His hands grasped her hips and pulled her body down to his thigh. Sarah gasped, her fingernails digging into his skin and he stilled. Apart from his thumbs playing over her soft skin, he did not move.

Slowly, his hands began to glide up and down, his rough palms sliding over her smooth skin. Sarah's hands left his forearms and fell above her head. He gazed down to see her staring up at him, and slowly, he slid her chemise from her body, pulling the shirt over her arms. Sitting back on his heels, Sarah's leg inadvertently supporting some of his weight, he let his gaze wander over her, her small, widely spread, delicate breasts. His body was twitching, yearning for her, aching to feel her. Dipping forward, his hands moved to her breasts, dragging over them, fingertips trailing.

Sarah's moans spurred him further. He slid down her body, both legs now between hers. His palms pushed up on her breasts as he pressed his lips to the wide space between them, trailing light kisses along her skin. Lifting his head a moment, he met her eyes and saw her flush.

A novice at anything sexual, he was quickly losing control of his faculties. His thoughts were lost to him. His only awareness was of his body and her body and every reaction the two engaging created. His body was taking control. His hand dipped into her breeches, sliding over her undergarments and then inched beneath, feeling her move against his hand, her moans sounding in his ear. His ache increased and he knew he had to relieve that ache soon.

The hand that had dipped into her breeches began to move faster, her moans a song that spurred him on. His free hand tugged at her breeches, lifting her hips and awkwardly pushing and pulling her breeches over her buttocks. If he had been thinking, he may have thought how odd it felt to be undressing a boy, but all he could think of was removing Sarah's clothing and revealing the girl beneath the boy. His now wet hand left her undergarments and he looked at it briefly before hooking it under the waist of her breeches, both hands sliding them down the length of her legs and over her feet. He followed with her undergarments, watching Sarah's own legs kick them off her feet. Kneeling before her, he gazed down at her, the naked, pale, slender beauty. She was brilliantly slender, delightfully lithe, her lines near perfect, curving into a woman, but still the slender beauty.

Her body had its own form. Despite how unfashionable it was to be slim, Sarah could never be anything but. Her slender, graceful form fit her to perfection and he could only find her body enchanting. She left him breathless. He felt that he could have stared down at her forever, if not for the ever present ache and the sudden awareness that he was fully dressed above her. He lifted his chemise over her head, throwing it aside, and took her hands in his, placing them on his waist, guiding them to push his breeches from his body. His hands left Sarah's as he watched her hands push down one leg and then the other. He stood, stepping out of his breeches, his eyes closing as her hands repeated the motion with his undergarments. Stepping out of them, he lay at her side, gazing at her as her eyes, brimming with curiosity, wandered over him. Gently, he took her hand, so small in his, and guided it to him, wanting her to be the first to touch him. Her eyes widened at first touch, her fingers tentatively toying over him. When her hand curled around him, he slammed his eyes shut, placing his hand over hers and tightening the grasp. She squeezed and he bucked into her, eyes still shut tight, head flung back. This, she...Sarah, was who he wanted touching him.

* * *

God, he was beautiful, primal and full of abandon. Sarah ran her thumb over him and he bucked into her again. With her free hand, she took his and guided it to her, wanting to feel his touch again. His head came forward and eyes opened, staring at her, and all of her capable thoughts were about how completely inexperienced they were and how they never really knew what they were doing. All she knew was that she wanted him to keep touching her.

She felt Guilbert roll her onto her back and watched as he rose above her, his arm beside her head, bracing his body over hers. His other hand gently removed hers from him and she stared up at him, the chin dipped to his chest, looking down at the length of their bodies, his hand now replacing hers.

Slowly she felt him enter, easing into her, his eyes tender, but the movements awkward and painful. He pushed forward and she winced. His movements stopped, but she tugged on his back, knowing that despite the pain, she wanted him to keep going. His head fell against her chest and he thrust forward.

Her eyes shot wide open. The pain was incredible. Unable to utter a sound, her arms flailed up, grasping at his back, needing something to hold onto. She tried to pull her chest to his, to cling to him, but his head was in the way so she continued to hold on as best she could while he rocked forward, her hands slapping at his back as she tried to get a better grip. His forehead slid up to her shoulder and she thrust her chest upwards, bringing it flush with his, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, clinging to his sweaty body, still just needing something to hold onto as she waited for the pain to ease. She could hear his moans in her ear, "Sarah. Sarah. Sarah." His open mouth landed on her shoulder and she tried to concentrate on the heat of it while he continued to rock into her until he was finished. It still hurt when he withdrew and slumped against her. She held him tight, still unable to let go, feeling something sticky and wet run down her legs.

Guilbert lifted his head and she looked away, not wanting him to see the pain in her features. He rolled her onto her side, his embrace tightening, his large, gentle hands rubbing soothing circles over her back. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm so sorry that hurt you."

Sarah shook her head against his chest and burrowed in. Her hands clung to his back, her palms flat against him. "I love you," she whispered, and that alone allowed his embrace to soften.

* * *

He rubbed his hands along her back, over and over, trying to soothe the pain he could see in her. Guilt washed over him for causing her pain and he cursed himself for it. He'd tried to be as gentle as possible, but the feel of her around him, her warmth, the heat, oh, God! His body had a life of its own, going faster than he wanted. He felt as though he'd been drowning in her. His mind could not control the urge to bury himself within her over and over.

Kissing his shoulder softly, he glanced down at the blood sticking to both their legs. There was so much of it. He pulled her tight to him, closing his eyes and burying his face in her neck. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he whispered, tears landing on her shoulder. Sarah's fingers ran soothingly up his back and he could not believe the love she held for him, the pain he caused and the comfort she offered.

Lifting his head, he continued to rub his hand over her back, long, gentle strokes that ran from her shoulder blades to the dip of her back. He pulled back slightly, but Sarah's arms held him to her and so he shifted to strengthen his embrace. Holding her, his head falling back to her shoulder, he tightened his arms around her.

The stickiness of the blood upon their legs weighed on him. An orphan since childhood, a drifter, a boy of no connections, all he had learnt had been through experience. He'd been focused on astronomy and mathematics and while he knew a great deal about anatomy from his studies, he did not know much about sex. All he knew of sex prior to this had been secondhand. Jiri's tales of visiting hookers had served the brunt of his knowledge, though he knew that he could not compare Jiri's experiences with hookers to any experience he would have with Sarah. The problem was he had not known quite what to expect. Blood, from when a girl became a woman, somehow had not occurred to him. He'd not prepared for it.

With that thought, he was almost happy they hadn't consummated their relationship the night before. It would have tainted their wedding day, surely, adding more distress to an already trying, erratic day. As it was, he already felt that the plunder of her maidenhood, the pain he'd caused, marred the beginning of their time in Benatky nad Jizerou. How would Sarah think of this place now, the place he'd thought would be his redemption, his beginning? Perhaps the disquiet he'd felt on arrival had meant something, a forewarning that contentment was not to be found here. It was preposterous, as though such a forewarning could exist, and yet, despite his more rational self, it still played on his mind.

Taking one hand, he slid it to her side and down to her hip, rolling her onto her back and pulling out of her arms despite her strong grip. He kissed her softly, reassuring, and kneeled beside her, running his hand softly from her hip to her leg. Lifting his hand, he stared down at the blood, Sarah's blood, on his hand. He had done this, and though it had been a natural act, though Sarah had pulled him closer whenever he'd felt he had to withdraw, he felt ashamed. He felt as though the priest's words were now true; he had defiled her.

"I'll…" he cleared his throat, "go fetch some water to clean us up."

Sarah's hands reached for him and he pressed his lips lightly to hers. "I'll be right back," he promised, kissing her again.

Sarah nodded and he was sure he imagined the softness in her eyes before he looked away, not daring to really look. He stood, pulling on his breeches and his chemise with his back to her. Just before he stepped down the first stair, he heard Sarah hiss and felt her hands on his arms and he froze, a tear falling when the warm breath of the kiss on his back filtered through his chemise. One of her hands slid down his arm and squeezed his hand. It was immensely reassuring. He squeezed back and released, stepping off the first step and pulling his hand from hers.

When he returned, Sarah was seated against the wall. She had pulled on her chemise, but had left her bottom half bare. He approached with the water, dipping in a cloth and setting the pail down. Kneeling on one knee before her, his hand dipped into the bucket of cold water and retrieved the cloth. Slowly ringing it out, he placed the cloth upon her leg and slid it up, washing off the blood between her thighs. He rinsed the cloth, watching the blood color the pail of water and dropped his gaze to the floor. Wringing out the cloth again, he placed it on her and tried to gently rub away the spots of blood that had dried. He kept his eyes on the floor as he rinsed the cloth and rung it out again, not wanting to see the water darken any further.

Holding out the cloth so that Sarah could finish washing herself, he waited, but the cloth only dangled from his fingers. Tentatively, he glanced up, peeking at her gaze upon him, her gentle, waiting expression and he swallowed. He shifted forward and laid the cloth over her, rubbing gently and trying to ignore the brief hiss of pain that sounded from Sarah's lips. Pulling back the cloth, he stared at the crimson stain and realized Sarah was still spotting blood. Was she supposed to bleed this much? He wiped her over and over again, horrified at seeing the cloth soak up more and more blood. Sarah's hands stopped him from wiping a fifth or tenth or twentieth time and he felt her take the cloth from his hand. Following her hands with his eyes, he watched as she dipped the rag into the pain and placed her hand over his breeches. His eyes widened as she tugged down.

"You need washing up too," she whispered and he could only nod. Standing, he allowed Sarah to pull down his breeches. He stared forward as she kneeled before him and placed the wet cloth over him. The cold cloth on his skin caused him to jerk and shiver.

Sarah's movements were so slow and light, he could not believe how sweetly she treated him. The cool cloth stroking over his skin caused him to react and he felt the heat rise to his face as he stood, mortified. He glanced down to see Sarah smirk and he placed his hands over her, stopping her from cleaning any more of his skin and arousing him further. Sitting down before her, he pulled her into his lap. Her hands tugged the chemise over his head and he did the same to hers, wrapping his arms around her, feeling her chest press into his, just wanting to hold her and take comfort of the intimacy of her skin along his. For the remainder of the morning, he sat with her in his lap, his arms tight around her.


	68. The Bohemian, XV

**The Bohemian, XV**

Once the observatory was set up, the new instruments in place, to be used in conjunction with the old, they had the days to sleep and explore the community. The nights were for observing the stars, taking measurements with the precision expected of them and she knew, that Guilbert had come to expect of himself. They were offered accommodation in the castle, but had declined, choosing to sleep where they worked, in the privacy of the observatory and beneath the sky which offered so much inspiration.

The sky was so clear up in the observatory, and in Benatky nad Jizerou. The stars, the endless, boundless sight of them, filled her with so much awe. She wondered how long it took man to catalogue each of them and to fix each of their positions in the sky. In the observatory, with its openness, its large windows, its position so high up, it felt as though the heavens had opened up to them. Each night, she would follow Guilbert's fingers, as he pointed out one star, or another, tracking the movements of planets by their positions in the sky. The night was filled with observances and shared excitement, with work and wonder, and his eyes, dark, staring at her with fire.

Each time she saw that look, she would wait for him to approach her and touch her, to take her in his arms, to lay her down and release that passion she saw, but he would not. She could see the guilt in his eyes, the guilt mingling with softness every time he looked at her. It had hurt, the loss of her maidenhood. Her mother had once told her it would. Perhaps it had hurt more than she'd expected, or had prepared for, or had thought would occur with Guilbert as he was made for her and always so tender and loving, and perhaps the pain had overwhelmed her in the moment, but she did know that it was possibly coming. Her mother had spoken to her about how it would feel, had treated it like something hurt initially, but then became tolerable…manageable. With Guilbert, though, Sarah knew it could be something more than tolerable. She wanted him inside her, ached for it. Thinking about it, she could not imagine her father doing anything in bed apart from satisfying his own needs, but Guilbert…his breath on her, his soft voice, his stare, they all had the ability to weaken her knees, to render her incapable of thought, to have her legs clenching and leave her wanting. And their consummation hadn't been all bad. While it was painful, as the loss of all maidenhood was sure to be, the beginning, his lips on her skin, his touch, how amazing she could feel by so little, was staggering. Even after he'd entered her, while the pain coursed through her, she still wanted him inside, wanted to hold him inside, wanted to adjust to him as her mother told her she would, and be joined with him forever. Unfortunately, with pain as the primary feeling and lasting throughout the experience, it was difficult to express what the rest meant.

Guilbert was still affectionate, very much so. His every touch was soothing. In sleep, he would hold her in his arms, letting his hands wander idly over her spine. She would play with the fingers in his hand, trying to think of a way to entice him to touch her again. By day he would hold her hand, walking about town, and she would lean into him. She wore a dress, the dress he bought for her, when wandering about town, knowing that it was highly unlikely that word would get back to Prague and wanting him to see her as the girl he married. She knew of his needs, did not want their initial experience to discourage him forever. It wouldn't hurt like the first time again. She was a girl their first time. Now, she was no longer a girl, but a woman, craving his touch.

* * *

He brushed his fingertips over the length of her feminine chemise and heard Sarah sigh. She grasped his hand and began to play with his fingers, staring down at them and sighing again. He sighed as well, now well used to the idle way she played at his fingers. He was afraid, as though she was something breakable, something he'd broken, but it did not halt the awareness of every space and breath of her. Aching to touch her, to have her touch him, but fearing it all the same, had him in pieces, in opposition with himself, so conflicted, it tore right through his core. He desired her fervently, but feared that desire could only lead to her pain, so he suffered through the ache, trying to atone for the pain he'd caused.

Sarah sighed again and pushed back. This was something he was not used to. Up to that moment, after she finished playing with his fingers, she would burrow into him. He held his breath, waiting to see what she would do, and then her hands were rubbing over his chest, up and down, creating friction and heat and tugging up the chemise with her palms. Her mouth landed on his neck, hot, incredible, incredibly tempting. He pulled his head back and his hands landed on hers, halting the movement, but Sarah shook her head and pulled her hands free, placing them over his and guiding them to the hem of her chemise.

Guilbert stared at her, his hands where she'd placed them, gripping the fabric, but not moving. Her hand pressed his palm to the warm skin of her thigh. "I like it when you touch me," she whispered.

He was absolutely stunned. There was such innocence in the statement and he marveled at it. He swallowed, staring into her eyes, seeking confirmation to her words. His hand on her thigh twitched and he watched her suck in a breath. In her eyes, he could see her yearning, her need to be touched, to be loved.

With no little hesitation, he slid his hands up her thighs, over her hips, slowly pulling the chemise from her body as she lifted and wiggled to aid him. She followed by lifting his chemise over his head, pulling it off of his wrists and he was above her, his lips wandering over her skin, the feel of her soft hands running along his naked back, a gentle, kindling reminder that this was what she wanted.

He was careful with his touch, observant with his lips. He knew, from the hitch in each breath, what gave her pleasure, where her enjoyment lay. She guided his hand between her legs and his fingers danced lightly over her, dipping, retreating, parting, sliding. Her head flung back and he kissed the hollow of her throat before moving his face to her side, whispering her name in her ear.

This was Sarah, vibrant and abandoned, and so incredibly attractive. Her heavy breaths in his ear, her movements against his hands, her gasps and arches, all indications of her pleasure, her want, her desire. Every touch was for her. Observing, feeling her reactions, it was as if a whole new world was opening up to him, a world of sex and love, or making love, of mutual enjoyment derived from wandering hands and well placed kisses. He slid down, kissing her stomach, her flat, perfect stomach and felt her hands guide his head lower, seeking something he was not sure he understood. He moved lower, replacing his hand with his mouth, feeling her buck and groan and release into him, her muscles trembling with the release. It was amazing. Learning her body, what she wanted and liked, more than liked, but what could unravel her, was amazing. The breath of knowledge he was uncovering was amazing and he was so very grateful. He was in awe, so much in awe, he lingered between her legs, not moving until he felt her hands land softly beneath his chin and lift his head up. His eyes were moist with his gratitude and he slid up, kissing her before pulling back to stare down at her beauty and the beautiful flush on her face.

He kissed her again and lingered above her, his breaths mingling with hers, his eyes closing as her thumbs brushed along his jaw. Her touch disappeared and he opened his eyes, watching as her hands fell to his breeches, tugging down. His earlier anxieties returned and he tried to still her, but Sarah seemed not to care of his distress, ignoring his attempts to still her hands. She pushed his breeches down with her foot, kicking them off of him. She did the same with his drawers, and then she had him in hand, making his protests impossible.

Sarah guided him to her and he hovered above her, longing to enter, but still afraid. He stared down at her, seeing her eyes moist and afraid, not unsure of the act, but worry that he would roll away. Her eyes pleaded and he slowly pushed into her, groaning with pleasure against his better wishes. Waiting for Sarah's breath to return, her pursed lips to open and the slight look of pain to leave her eyes, he held himself in her. Her breath released, she nodded and he sunk lower. He listened and looked for signs of pain in her, but Sarah's leg only wrapped around his body, taking him in deeper. He gasped with pleasure and began to move slowly, kissing her and touching her.

His forehead rested against hers, his curly hair framing her face. He stared into her eyes, rocking into her, a slow and leisurely pace, watching her match the pace, too much concentration in her features, and he lost some of his confidence, knowing that in their afternoon delight, her eyes should not reflect concentration, but…delight. He knew they were still learning the feel and pace and beat of each other and focused his own concentration on listening to the rhythm of her. Then, her features eased, her eyes locked to his, her gaze deep and wonderful, and they were in harmony. Still in touch with the rhythm they'd found, still in symmetry, he lost himself in her. She was under him and all around him, and then, somehow, above him and every sensation sent waves of pleasure through him. And, it lasted. The act of making love was so beautiful, so wondrous. This joining of his body with hers, the mutual enjoyment, the lovemaking, the slow, lasting pace, was so much more incredible than the base satisfaction he received the first time. Where once he saw pain, he could only see fulfillment and that lifted him to new heights.

Her hair falling from her face, her hands on his chest, her small breasts hanging, her long, exquisite throat thrown back, she was so incredibly beautiful. He shifted, lifting his body to kiss and touch her. His hands slid along her hamstrings as she rocked above him. His gaze still held deep to hers, he tugged on her waist, sinking into her and holding her body as she collapsed against his chest, their releases almost in time, immeasurably close.

Her chest tucked against him, her legs straddling him, he ran his hands down her back, over her buttocks, and back up, holding her in place. Her head lifted from his shoulder and she kissed him, long and deep. He rolled their bodies to their sides and moved to slide out, but she held him inside her, her leg wrapping around him, her arms holding his body to hers. He drifted to sleep inside her.

He woke some time later, to see her watching him with a soft smile. Her index finger was splaying with his sweaty locks, curling the hair around it and letting it go. He could feel the locks bounce up and felt somewhat amused by her actions. Placing his hands on her back, he pulled her to him, kissing her softly. She cuddled closer, one knee inadvertently nudging him and he felt himself stir. Soon his hands were running over her skin, along her back. She rolled, pulling him over her and he kissed her deeply. They made love throughout the evening and into the night. The stars shining above them, the heavens open to them and all he could see was her, the shine in her eyes as she stared up at him.

He pulled her into his arms, her back against his chest and held her in his embrace. The stars were out and work beckoned, but he only wanted to hold her in this cocoon they'd created. This girl in his arms, his wife, his love, held every piece of him.

"My soul is not my own," he whispered. "Nor, does it, forgive me father," he continued, lifting his eyes to the stars, "belong to God." He gazed down at her, at her delicate, beautiful face. Slowly he took his finger and flicked away the hair resting on the side of her face. He dipped his lips to her temple, letting them linger. His last whispers were pressed to her skin. "My soul belongs to you."


	69. The Bohemian, XVI

**The Bohemian, XVI**

The night took on a different quality, one she was not sure she could qualify. It wasn't the heavy clouds obscuring the night sky, or the chill or Guilbert still asleep, unconscious to the texture of the room. There was something else, something just beyond her understanding, guiding the evening mood.

Sarah stopped, waited, listened. The quiet whispers of the night were all that reached her ears, a murmur, a sigh, Guilbert's quiet breaths, her own steady heartbeat threading through the air and reaching her ears. Her thoughts ran on linear as she tried to get a sense of what she was feeling. She let her thoughts follow that course, exploring their passage through her mind, and then, they moved, bent, curved, encircled and her thoughts were repossessed, taken from her as though they were never hers, all her musings borrowed and heeding the request to be returned.

There was a chill and she shivered. What to make of her thoughts, she did not know, only that they came to her, no longer linear, but scattered, returning to her in parts and making her work to form some sort of cohesion. Why, she did not know. Why? Perhaps it was the night, or the chill, or that she was shivering in the night, cool, awake, while Guilbert remained sleeping. Perhaps it was the clouds, low and heavy, concealing the stars. There would be no work that night.

Behind her, the light from the torch illuminated the outside world, giving the clouds an eerie glow. The clouds were not dark, but grey and light and thick. Squinting, she could make out the pale outline of the moon where the clouds broke off from one another, but no more. She had risen in the dark in hopes of gazing upon Kepler's star, but the clouds had concealed it. In the following passage of time, minutes, an hour, two hundred eighty seven heartbeats since she had begun the count, she had stood by the window, in the path of the breeze, waiting for the clouds to part or rise and leave, to watch that new star and ponder it in solitude.

Part wonder and curiosity and part assignment, she and Guilbert had made careful observation of that star each night. To conceive of the birth of a star had left her in awe, but tucked amongst Guilbert's quiet words of reverence and marvel, her own thoughts had been lost to her. She had not yet let her own thoughts take the forefront. She had not yet let her own thoughts free. There, finally, with the stars hidden and she awake, alone by the window, her mind wandered and pondered.

There were so many unanswered questions. Whats filled her mind. What, she wondered, would the birth of a new star have on man's understanding, his views, ideas? What perceptions would change with the understanding that the heavens are not fixed? What of a new star's location in the sky? If a new star were to appear in a constellation, how would that constellation change? Would its shape change and consequently, its meaning? And if stars could be born, could they too die? Could they fade and diminish, be extinguished from the sky? And if that were so, then, what of a constellation that loses one star and gains another? How would that alter a constellation? Would the alteration of its shape alter its meaning, its history, or its horoscope? If man judged himself by the stars, would his perception of self change if his constellation did? Would astrology evolve? Would the story of an altered constellation alter over time? Would man rewrite history and myth and fable to fit the new shape? Would the old meanings and stories be lost to time? How much was altered by this one new star? A life? Her life?

She paused in her thoughts, recounting how she became known to Guilbert and the changing nature of her relationship following. If the birth of a star could alter so much, how about the birth of a moment? Could the birth of one moment alter as much? Could one single, solitary moment affect change? Could the origin of one moment in time, one moment in the space of one breath, alter the trajectory of thought or decision? Could it alter an understanding, a shared history, a story…a life?

Her hand fell to her stomach, resting flat upon it, her fingers splayed out, an unconscious, instinctive movement she wasn't sure or really aware of, only cognizant enough to know she did not understand how or why the reflex had occurred. Glancing back at Guilbert, asleep on his stomach, blankets at his waist despite the chill from the cool autumn evening, she smiled softly. Her eyes traveled the length of his back, watching his muscles quiver as he shivered. What a beautiful back, she mused in admiration and she thought about kneeling beside him to trace her finger over it.

She gazed at him in softness, wondering if she was too young to love so maturely. Everything she felt for this boy, this man, was beyond her senses. This boy was her husband, her chosen husband, her love and she knew she would continue to love him for the rest of her days, as tenderly and as deeply and as knowingly as she did at that moment. A tender smile spread over her face as she watched him peaceful in repose.

Guilbert shivered again and patted the empty space beside him. Sighing, she cast another wistful glance out the window, thinking again of Kepler's star and of change. Everything was subject to change. The peaceful existence they'd found in Benatky nad Jizerou was sure to soon to come to an end. Perhaps that was the reason for her mood. Soon it would be time to return to being Tomas by day, immersed in work, in rewarding work, but her love for Guilbert having to be muted. She liked being away and being with him as herself, knowing that he listened as carefully and as openly as he had the boy Tomas. She liked the quiet and the solitude and the lack of interference they received in the country. She even liked sleeping on the floor, sheltered by nothing more than a roof, a few blankets and his arms. Knowing they would be returning to Prague, she wondered for how long? Though she would do it for him, she did not want to commit to a life in Prague.

Beckoning her from her thoughts, Guilbert let out an audible shiver, the chill vibrating in his jaw and making itself known. Sarah moved to his side and tenderly pulled the cast off blankets to his shoulders, smiling as her name silently passed his lips. Quietly, she unbuttoned the doublet she'd slipped into when she'd first arisen and lowered it to the floor.

The night chill passed through her and she trembled. Lifting Guilbert's arm, she laid beside him, guiding herself beneath the arm and let it drop over her. She burrowed into his warmth, her fingers on his chest, her arms tucked in between their bodies, the arch of her foot skating up and down his calf, warming her feet on his hot to the touch skin.

His eyes opened and he pulled her closer and she was only faintly sorry for waking him. His gaze was on her and she felt warmth spread through her body. "Touch me," she whispered and he stared at her, nodded and obliged, his fingers peeling her chemise from her skin, his mouth moving lightly over her in the way he'd learned to bring her pleasure. The light graze of his teeth and his soft brushes of lips left tingles on her cool skin that had her quivering and aching for more. Her touch wandered as well, giving what she took, arousing him and bringing him pleasure in the way that she'd learned. They were joined and there was no longer that initial discomfort that had come with each of his entries. There was only him, and this and she was lost to everything but the breathtaking feel of him inside her, joined to her. There was only him.

* * *

He stared at her in the torchlight, his eyes wandering over her soft features and locking on her eyes. Her hands and feet were cold, always cold, always icy, and he shivered, pulling her closer, pressing his skin to hers to warm her. "Touch me," she'd whispered and he'd responded, stripping her of her chemise and making love to her. Afterwards, eyes closed, he lay on his stomach as she traced her finger over his back, her nail dragging along his skin. The cool movement of her finger on his bare skin, bare to the chilly night air and to his gaze, caused shivers to run through him and his eyes opened. He turned his head to look up at her. Her eyes were on his back and he smiled, rolling to his side to see her better, hoping her gaze would meet his. "What are you doing?"

Sarah smiled softly above him. One hand rested upon her stomach while the index finger of another traced over his shoulder. "I'm tracing a constellation."

"Are you?" He may have been amused, but Sarah's features were so serious, his remained impassive, if not slightly soft and questioning.

"Hmm," she responded, her lips pursed, her fingers still gliding over him. She was quiet, still tracing, and he waited.

"I was wondering how the birth of a new star within a constellation would alter it."

Outside the realm of science, it was something he hadn't thought to consider, though he was not surprised that Sarah, far more sensitive to human thought, emotion and need for identity than he, had posed the question. The way she had worded the statement, so softly, gave him pause and he wondered if it held a deeper meaning. Sarah's hesitant, half smile, and her eyes, fixed upon her nail still dragging over his shoulder, gave little clue. His hand lifted and caught her hand mid-trace. His hand over hers, he rolled to his back, gazing up at her as he kissed her palm below her curled fingers. Both his hands moved to her waist. Sarah's hands fell to his chest and he stared up at her. One hand lifted to her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear. His hand fell to her shoulder and slid down her arm, rough from goosebumps, landing at her wrist. He gave a gentle squeeze. "I'm not sure."

Sarah rose from the floor. He sat up, the blankets that had remained on him pooling at his thighs. Before him, Sarah's arms wrapped about her slender, nude body as she stared out the window. The image of a statue rose to his mind, a work of art, and Sarah's stance was rigid enough to make that resemblance more pronounced. Captivated by the quiet beauty in her stance, her pale, slender figure, classical in appearance, he could have sat and stared at her magnificent form, her exquisite body, if not for the understanding that he was not staring at a statue made beautiful by quiet sadness, but his wife, breathing, alive, and, for reasons not yet known to him, hurting. She shook and trembled in the chilly night air and he rose, grabbing a blanket from his thighs and wrapping it around his naked body. He stood behind her, opening the blanket to her and enfolding her in his embrace. Staring out over her shoulder, he watched as the first flakes of snow, large and white, fell slowly from the clouds. The image, lit by the light of the torch behind them, was quietly beautiful. Muted and serene, the vision before him held his attention.

Guilbert tightened his hold on Sarah. "It's snowing," he whispered and felt her nod.

It was silent as he held her to his chest and watched the snow fall before them. As beautiful as it was, the white snow falling and nothing else visible, he knew that with the changing weather, their time in Benatky nad Jizerou was over. If they stayed too much longer, travel back to Prague would be difficult. "We'll have to return to Prague soon," he continued softly.

"Yes," Sarah whispered in return and he sensed a sadness and regret. Did she want to remain? They had carved out a life of quiet intimacy there and he too was hesitant to leave, knowing that once they returned to Prague, their life would together would change, be confined to a small room in a boarding house where privacy was little to be found.

One arm fell, wrapping around her stomach and resting upon her hand. He kissed her shoulder and pulled her back into his chest. "What do you want to do?"

Sarah said nothing, but he could feel the tension in her back. "Sarah?"

"What do you want to do?"

He paused and sighed. What did he want, apart from a quiet life with her? He supposed he wasn't quite done with the work he was doing for Johannes Kepler and needed a little more time. It wouldn't be long before he could move on, he knew that, but would Sarah want to continuously travel with him? He was a drifter and had never stayed in one place long. Would she follow him from town to town? Would she want to return to Prague until he felt he'd accomplished all he wanted? He said nothing.

"You want to return to Prague."

Sarah's words held no emotion and no question. He hugged her tighter. "For awhile. I'm not quite finished what I want to accomplish."

She nodded and sighed. "I'm not either."

"But, soon, Sarah." He turned her in his arms, keeping her wrapped within the warmth of the blanket. His head fell back so that he could look her into her eyes. "Soon. I don't want to have our life together holed up within a tiny room. When we finish what we've wanted to achieve with Kepler, I'd like to move on to a place where we can be together without the burden of our secret."

Sarah smiled and burrowed into him. He turned them so that they could both look out the window at the snow. Holding her chest to his, he bent his knees, easing himself to the floor and tugging her to his lap. He turned his eyes to hers. "Come on, there will be no work tonight." She settled upon him and they stared out at the snow blanketing the trees and white washing the world outside.


	70. The Bohemian, XVII

**A/N: **Terribly sorry for the long delay. I've been extremely distracted lately, had a couple of other stories that wouldn't leave me alone, and a few other excuses I won't try to pawn off on all of you. Thank you for sticking with this.

**The Bohemian, XVII**

A hand on Sarah's back, Guilbert led his tired wife up the steps of their boarding house. It had been a long journey back from Benatky nad Jizerou, and he could see the fatigue in the way Sarah carried herself, her heavy steps lifting her petite frame with a weariness he had never associated with her.

They had left early in the morning, catching a lift on a small river barge carting supplies down the Jizera. Each stop along the river added to the couple's fatigue as they waited for supplies to be loaded and unloaded. When the river emptied into the Labe, they bid their ride farewell, stopped so that Sarah could change into her Tomas garments, and then followed the road towards Prague, hiking several miles before a passing cart offered them a lift.

Slowly, with tired and heavy muscles, Guilbert followed Sarah through the entrance, his hand still resting lightly on her back. He looked up to see the other set of steps, the ones that would take them to their room. At the moment, the trek seemed arduous, but once at the top, they would be in their room, alone, and he looked forward to curling to sleep with his wife tucked against his chest. He looked forward to seeing her slender frame emerge from boys clothing. He looked forward to her delicate fingers freeing him of his own garments.

With renewed vigor, he guided Sarah up each step, maintaining contact with her back. At the top of the steps, she stopped before him and he stepped into her, stumbling slightly, his hands catching her hips to hold his balance. An accident he did not wish to correct, he remained pressed against his wife, reveling in the softness of her hip beneath his palm and the warmth of her back against his chest. His hand slid up her side and Sarah stepped forward, breaking the contact. Guilbert glanced up in surprise, meaning to turn his confused gaze to his wife when he saw Jiri in the hall.

Lost in his own world, Jiri stood leaning against the wall. He pushed himself up, fidgeted and paced, turned, slumped against the wall again and repeated the motions. Guilbert narrowed his eyes, studying his restless colleague. Jiri's hair was disheveled. His cloths were in disarray. Despite a long day of travel, Guilbert and Sarah, nee, Tomas, looked in better condition.

Guilbert nodded to Sarah, signaling for her to continue into their room. She nodded in reply, slipping past Jiri and following the hall to their room. Once Sarah disappeared behind their door, Guilbert returned his attention back to Jiri. He stepped towards his colleague. "Jiri?"

Jiri's eyes snapped to Guilbert's, his expression one of only now noticing the presence of another. "Guilbert?"

"Is everything well, Jiri?"

"Well?"

Guilbert nodded.

"I…I'm not quite certain. But you, you're back?"

"Yes."

"And where were you again?"

"Benatky nad Jizerou."

"Benatky nad Jizerou." Jiri seemed to turn the name over in his mind. "Oh, yes, that is right." He paused a moment. "And how was Benatky nad Jizerou?"

"Productive." He paused and smiled softly. "Invigorating."

Jiri nodded, pursing his lips. "Yes." There was another pause. Jiri ran a hand over his face. "Perhaps I should go there next, to get away from here."

Guilbert frowned. "Has something happened in my absence?"

Jiri let out a sigh that seemed to consume him. His eyes turned distant. "Nothing. No sight, nor sighting, mine heart, mine dream, an illusion."

"Jiri?"

Jiri's eyes refocused. He turned a resigned gaze towards Guilbert. "My fair ghost haunts my spirit, but only in dreams. In mine wakefulness, she leaves but a memory of that one, brief glimpse."

Guilbert's heart froze. Though Sarah was wedded to him and though he trusted in their union, Jiri's words caused Guilbert no little amount of anxiety. He sighed. "Jiri, you are not still searching for this woman?"

"Searching? Seeking? Yes. Finding, no. I will find her though, find her and make love to her."

"Oh?"

"Yes, and I will steal her away, so that she may never disappear again."

"Jiri…"

Jiri pushed himself up from his slumped position on the wall. "Guilbert, you do not know the ache I suffer, knowing there is such a girl and losing her before I am able to speak but one word to her. One word is all I seek, just the chance to whisper, 'love'."

Guilbert could only nod. He understood the ache and pain of loving Sarah. He remembered fearing he'd lost her before he had her. Her father's denial still rang loudly in his ears.

"Jiri," he began, trailing off, not knowing what to speak. A kind hand on Jiri's shoulder, he gave a gentle squeeze before silently passing by his friend.

Glancing back at Jiri, he entered his small room, solemn and slightly sullen. His gaze turned to the room. One glance at Sarah and he felt his heart stop at her radiant smile. His stare on his wife, he reached back and slowly shut the door.

In the brief minutes of his conversation with Jiri, Sarah had removed her doublet. She stood before Guilbert in only her breeches and chemise. Through the thin material of her top, he could see how she was changing. Though the shirt bagged, he could still make out the delicate rounding of her breast, the curving of her figure, the glow upon her face. She would not be able to hide as Tomas for much longer.

His heart swelling, Guilbert took a swift stride towards her, gathering her to his body. His hands skimmed over her figure, grasping her soft waist and pulling her flush against him. His lips sought her neck, her jaw, her mouth. Kissing her with abandon, he pulled at her cloths, stripped her of her chemise and breeches, leaving her gloriously nude before him.

Sarah's hands tugged at his clothing. Her nimble fingers freed buttons of their holes. Her palms slid over material, casting the garments from his body. He stood before her, letting her delicate fingers trail over his skin. He shivered and kissed her again, backing her to the bed and laying her out on top of it.

Her gaze upon his body left him in awe. He stared down at the lithe form beneath him. So lovely. His fingers danced over the gentle swell of her abdomen and he laid a kiss upon it, and then, another. Her fingers combed through his hair as he peppered kiss upon kiss across her figure. His head tilted to hers, glancing up at her and he covered her, making love to her in the small room with thin walls, in muted passion. Tired from their journey, he gazed at Sarah as she fell quickly to sleep. Soon afterwards, he joined her.

* * *

"Guilbert!"

Guilbert turned his head away from his work, glancing up at Jiri as Jiri approached the table. He waited, knowing that with Jiri's recent distraction, his colleague may need an ear, or someone to guide him back to his reality. Jiri stopped just before him, bearing little of the agitation he'd begun to associate with the distracted Jiri.

"Guilbert, I have made a decision."

He cocked his head to the side, wondering at Jiri's sudden decision. Given Jiri's recent mood, Guilbert could not help but feel slightly apprehensive. "A decision?"

"Yes." Jiri paused, shifting on his feet. "What you've said makes a great deal of sense."

Guilbert furrowed his brow. He did not think he'd said anything, really, to Jiri, or at least, nothing of consequence. "What I've said?"

"Yes." Jiri lifted his hands before his chest, touching his fingertips together. Guilbert watched as the fingers pressed into one another, stretching out. His eyes moved back to Jiri when Jiri's hands suddenly dropped to his sides.

"The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that the apparition is a figment of my imagination. I will not dwell on her any longer."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I've wasted far too much time and energy on this. Did you know I scarcely realized you were away? I was so distracted. And you were away more than a fortnight."

"I was away for nearly a month and fortnight, Jiri."

"And that is my point. But no more. From this moment on, I shall return to the jovial Jiri of our first meeting."

Guilbert smiled. "I'm glad." He turned back to his work.

"Now," Jiri continued, causing Guilbert to glance back up. He frowned upon seeing Jiri's sly smile, his stomach feeling a pang of discomfort. Jiri's smile broadened. "The fair youth, Tomas, was away with you."

"Yes."

"Pretty boy," Jiri mused.

It was silent. Jiri's eyes glowed with his smile. "Alone in Benatky nad Jizerou."

"Yes."

"The boy who bestowed upon your lips, a kiss."

"Jiri," he started, a stern warning in his tone.

Jiri only smirked. "The youth, whom I am to understand, no longer dwells in his own room. And how did you spend your nights up there?"

"I worked Jiri," he spoke evenly, looking back down at his work. "Apparently, I accomplished far more up there than you have down here."

"Hmm…and your rest?"

Guilbert's eyes remained on the math in front of him. "I spent my time of rest with a beautiful woman, Jiri," he stated in an even tone."

He remained focused on his work, leaving Jiri standing mutely beside him. Jiri's eyes on him were slightly disconcerting. He'd expected Jiri to move, but when it became apparent that Jiri was obviously stuck to his position, Guilbert looked up. "Jiri…"

"A beautiful woman?"

Guilbert snuck a glance over at Sarah, his eyes moving over her delicate face. Her eyes caught his and a flush spread over her glowing features as she smiled. Guilbert smiled in return. "Hmm…"

Jiri, not having noticed the exchange and not to be outdone, smirked. "To the dismay of Tomas, no doubt."

Guilbert sighed. "Jiri, do you not have work to do?"

"I do."

"Then, should you not return to it?"

"I will."

Jiri's eyes moved across the room. Guilbert found his own eyes following their path, landing on Antoinette. Antoinette's gaze flickered between him and Sarah. Since their return, Antoinette had been wavering between the two and presenting herself before the two with renewed vigor. Guilbert appreciated how he could no longer feel the green-eyed monster when Antoinette made her approaches to Tomas. He was not certain who Antoinette favored more, for Sarah was certain it was he, while his suspicions were that Antoinette favored Tomas. In her approaches to him, he'd tried not offer any encouragement towards her, but it seemed her heart had decided to choose between Tomas and him regardless.

"Poor Antoinette, so smitten with two men, knowing not whom to choose."

Guilbert glanced up at Jiri, whose eyes, dancing with amusement, were still on Antoinette. "It would be better for her to move on, or to choose one, but whom will she choose?"

Guilbert froze, wishing for her to move on, rather than choose between his wife and him. It was awkward watching the pretty girl long for his wife, thinking his wife a boy.

"A decision?"

Guilbert's eyebrow rose at Jiri's words. He looked straight at his colleague.

Jiri's eyes stayed on Antoinette. "Who she chooses now, is who she favors." Jiri paused, watching the girl's gaze waver. "Will it be you, or Tomas?"

Guilbert glared at Jiri.

"Ah, she chooses."

His eyes moved to Antoinette, watching her gaze flicker one final time. She sighed and moved towards Tomas. Guilbert watched as the two exchanged a few words.

Sarah smiled as she spoke to the girl. Her smile held Guilbert's gaze. Her eyes caught his, her smile growing wider, and he returned the smile. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Jiri smirk beside him. Jiri's eyes were fixed firmly on Antoinette and Tomas. "A grand waste of time, seeing how our Tomas is also so smitten. Does he know his heart is being wasted?"

Guilbert frowned. For a man so smitten with one glance at a woman, Jiri was far too cavalier about the feelings of others. He wondered at Jiri's mood, but was stopped short when he watched Jiri stepping towards the two in conversation. Lunging forward behind Jiri, he hoped to stop Jiri before the young man's mood caught the better of his mouth.

"Jiri, stop!"

Antoinette and Sarah looked up at him. Jiri looked back, smirking, before continuing to move forward. Sarah's eyes were on Guilbert, questioning the entire sequence of events, from Jiri's movements to his outburst.

"Jiri…" he tried again.

Conversation between Antoinette and Tomas disrupted, Antoinette turned away, likely sensing Jiri's mood did not bode well for her. She moved to pass them. Jiri stepped before her, causing her to look up at him. "Antoinette," he spoke, his tone light and teasing. "Does thou not knowest, thou art too fair for our fair youth."

Antoinette's eyebrows rose. She looked to Guilbert, but be could only look away. "Jiri," he spoke, his tone low. "I think you should get back to work."

"I am. I only…"

"You only wanted to prove that you were back to your old, spirits. I believe you are. You did not need to prove it by wrecking everybody else's with this demonstration."

"Guilbert, both Antoinette and that boy long for something not within their reach. It would be better for them to know so than believe otherwise."

"That was not your concern, nor is it of your concern."

"No," Jiri spoke, properly chastised. "Perhaps not. Come on, let's go to the brothel after work and free our minds of all this unrequited love."

Guilbert paused. He shook his head. "You go, Jiri. I have other plans."

Jiri's eyebrow rose. "Indeed?"

"I am returning to work, Jiri."

"Of course you are."

He said nothing further, letting his calculations grab hold of his attention, briefly thinking that he almost wished for a return of the love struck Jiri.


	71. The Bohemian, XVIII

**The Bohemian, XVIII**

Her first hint at consciousness came with a shiver that seemed to have absorbed into her body, entering and staying. She remembered returning from Mass, tucking herself into to her husband and nestling under the blanket. Some time in the night, her blanket must have slipped or been kicked from her upper body, leaving her bare, save for the thin chemise, from the waist up.

The cold winter night air sent a chill right through her, and had it not been for the heat of Guilbert pressed to her side, her only warmth in the frigid night, she may have awoken frozen rather than chilled.

Sarah rolled to her side, inching backwards into her husband's chest, into his heat. Reaching behind her, she lifted his arm and tugged it around her body. His hand dropped to her, his fingers absently playing over her abdomen in sleep. She smiled.

Rolling back onto her stomach, she pulled Guilbert with her, letting his warm body blanket her. She could still feel a slight chill in the areas uncovered, but with Guilbert's body draped across hers, his warm breath on her neck and in her ear, she was more than content to pass the remainder of the night in that position.

She woke next to Guilbert's breath on her shoulder, his palm cradling her stomach protectively. His lips pressed warmly to her shoulder and she smiled. Burrowing into his chest, she closed her eyes, letting herself feel his fingers soothing over her stomach and reveling in the brush of his thump over her navel. Her hand joined his, resting on to, her fingertips landing on her abdomen.

A pain surged through her and she curled, convulsively, into a ball, her knees coming up. Her hand squeezed his and she pinched her eyes shut.

"Sarah?"

She could not respond. Her stomach clenched tighter, so tight, she could barely breathe.

"Sarah? What is it?"

She tried to concentrate on words, but lost them in a haze of pain. Tears pricked at her eyes. Her grip on Guilbert's hand tightened, her knuckles white, her fingernails digging into his palm.

"No," she whispered and felt him pull her in tight. His voice soothed in her ear as his own realization took hold. His free palm lay flat upon her stomach. She could feel his own tears on the back of her neck.

His mouth landed on her shoulder, placing kiss upon kiss. She pulled his arm into her stomach and he held her close, his grief fusing together with hers. It was common, she knew, to lose so vulnerable a life, but as it happened, as blood spilled between her legs, she could only think how unfair it was to lose such a gift.

Guilbert continued to hold her. His body was stiff behind her and she knew it was from fear.

One trembling hand inched to her brow. She could feel the quivering of each of his fingers. Slowly, the hand traveled to her shoulder and she felt herself being rolled onto her back. She stared up at him, her eyes wide with her own fear. His trembling hand grazed over her chemise, gripping the blanket at her waist.

Slowly, his fingers withdrew the blanket. Not daring to look herself, Sarah watched as all of the breath left her husband's body. A tear escaped his eye, but he turned his head before she could watch it fall. His fingers drew the blanket back up.

"Stay here," he whispered. "Don't try to move. I'm going to get a doctor."

She nodded, fearing his absence, but knowing he needed to go. She wondered at his choice of doctor, rather than a midwife. Was it so terrible that he did not trust her care to anyone without medical training? She gripped his arm tight.

His lips dipped to her brow. "I'll return very shortly," he whispered, and then left in great haste.

She watched the door close and felt more pain wash through her. Her hands fell to her stomach, pressing into the sides. The pain was consistent, and though her hands felt glued to her stomach, she forced herself to slide them to the hem of the blanket.

Slowly, she lifted the blanket and glanced down. Her head fell back. Her fingers released the blanket. There was far less blood than she had imagined, just enough warm liquid to make her thighs sticky and to tell her what she'd lost.

Her tears fell from her eyes. Curling onto her side, she let them flow, waiting for Guilbert to return.

* * *

He paced the floor, waiting for the physician to check Sarah over. Though the physician had asked him to wait outside the door, he had refused to leave, needing to see and to know and to understand everything.

"Are you in much pain?" the doctor asked.

_Yes,_ his heart screamed, though Sarah only shook her head.

"You're slightly warm, but not enough to call a fever," the doctor stated.

Guilbert studied Sarah's ashen face and feared he'd never know warmth again.

"You have not lost much blood," continued the doctor, though as Guilbert stared at the blood upon her skin, he could only feel she'd lost more than enough.

"You've lost the child," the doctor finished and Guilbert felt the anguished cry rise within him as Sarah nodded, the tears in her eyes staining her cheeks.

"Will Sarah be alright?" Guilbert asked in a quiet, desperate voice.

"I believe so," replied the doctor. "She is not feverish, nor has she lost enough blood to be concerned with when it comes to her own health. It may take some time for the child to leave her body, but that is always better. I can give her some herbs to help it along."

"They will not harm her?"

"No, but if she becomes feverish, or suddenly experiences a large discharge of blood, send for me immediately."

Guilbert nodded.

"For now," the doctor continued softly, turning to Sarah, "just rest. I'll return with some herbs."

Guilbert waited for the doctor to leave and then sat down on the edge of the bed. His greatest fear was that he'd lose her and he wondered at how close he'd been or may still be. She was still so vulnerable.

A sob rose and stuck in his throat. He gazed down at her, wanting to touch her, or hold her, but he was afraid. How much of his marriage, he wondered, had he been afraid to touch his own wife? The fear that had gripped his heart after their first coupling, gripped it again in her pain.

He reached out to her, his hand hesitating above her arm. It fell and he sighed. He inched closer to her, needing to feel her, but uncertain as to whether he should. His voice came out weak. "May I hold you?"

"Please," Sarah whispered, her voice watery.

Guilbert lay out next to her, shuffling into her back, wrapping his arms gently around her. Holding her, he felt his life altered. He felt altered.

Sarah's hands tightened his arms around her. "I love you," she whispered, and he wept into her shoulder.

**A/N: **Happy Thanksgiving to those of you in Canada.


	72. The Bohemian, XIX

**The Bohemian, XIX**

He scarcely left her side. It was only when necessary, did Guilbert consent, albeit with the greatest reluctance, to go out. Once, he merely traveled down the hall, sending a message with Jiri, ignoring Jiri's smirk and then concern as he informed Jiri that Tomas had taken ill and needed care, choosing to maintain the façade of Tomas so that no uncomfortable questions would be asked. The other trips from his room were for supplies, food, fresh water, another dose of herbs.

Would time, he wondered, help to fade the wounds? Not that he felt that wounded. They had lost, to be sure, but it had been so early, nearly too early to feel the loss. And it was too common. No, the wounds that nearly undid him were of what he could have lost. It was the possibility. It was Sarah. Losing the mother was almost as common as losing the child. God help him, but he'd been so thankful that it had been the child taken. _And not the mother, _read that epilogue. Would time help to fade that fear?

She was healing, but in the bitter winter air, he only felt cold. It was too cold to heal. The chill had taken over his heart, his thoughts. It was cold and they had lost a child before it was a child, and his only concern was her. Frozen tears stung his face. He wiped them away with the rough material of his doublet. He watched her and waited, and only felt warm when he lay beside her, cocooning her in his embrace. Her body, her beautiful, delicate, slender figure, was warm, and feeling it was his only comfort during the cold winter nights.

He kept a constant vigil. Slowly, as the tiny former life inside of Sarah made its way out of her body, the color returned to her features. Still Guilbert fretted, worrying about the possibility of a sudden change, a reversal of fortune, fate indulging in some sort of trickery, a quiet ending that would destroy him. Fever was still possibly, not his, though he felt feverish, but hers. Sara was not yet out of harm's way. She was still so vulnerable to the misfortune of her sex, to the illness that steals new mothers and mothers in waiting. It reinforced the notion that life was so precious, for if it was not, why then, was there so much danger?

He was filled with alarm and with trepidation. His body tense, his motions careful, he watched the color return, Sarah's movements return, and monitored the discharge from her body. He held her close, let his hands wander over her stomach, stroking her skin as thought to make up for some absence.

Often, as she slept, he stared down at her and let his fingers graze so lightly over her figure. She was still his slender beauty, her form graceful, but he could not help but wonder at he changes her body would have gone through. When her color returned, and his greatest fears were behind him, he could not help but yearn for those changes.

* * *

The tenderness in her abdomen eased as the days passed into the new year. Her body began to recover, and so, her spirits. The loss of a child, so near to its conception, did not end the possibility of another. Their life, their family, was yet to really begin.

The life once inside her had scarcely felt real. The loss though, had felt very real, like robbing her of a treasure she'd understood to have possessed, but had never seen. She could not only feel the loss, but could see it in Guilbert's eyes. As each day passed, she'd studied the worry etched onto his face as he sat next to her, or, in his tender way, touched her.

It was over. She'd felt it even as early as the last of the blood tricked from her body. There would be time again, but for the time being, she had the warmth and comfort, and the overwhelming love of her husband. She would live for a soft smile, a delicate touch, fingers passing lightly and soothingly over skin, calm words of comfort between man and wife, quiet whispers between lovers, Guilbert's breath on her cheek. They lived and passed their time of grief together.

The loss of a child before birth was not such a surprise. Perhaps it was far more tragic in its frequency than in any one event. Her mother had lost a child. Marta had lost three. The sad reality was that it happened, and it happened to her. She had to deal with that. Her husband, though, she feared, fared far worse. Not only did he have to carry the grief of their loss, but also the fear of losing her.

She remembered the fear of losing him, the fear she'd felt when he'd told her he was leaving Pardubice. She remembered the nights spent watching him from her window in her father's home. They were just kids then, but really, it was only the recent past. Was it? It seemed like a lifetime before. When had they grown? In this experience? In others? Had they grown? She remembered thinking him so beautiful and unknown, so wonderfully serene, so quiet. She remembered sneaking out to sit with him on his roof, her eyes following his, in awe of what awed him, in awe of him. She stared at him now, thinking of the first time she lay next to him, his quiet words, the warmth of his body, the brush of his arm on hers, that first touch of lips, her hand wrapped warmly in his, the wonder and excitement of it all.

Her fingers hovered over his face, tracing the air above his features, every so often, letting them dip lightly to his skin. He still looked such a boy, but the worry and fear aged him, even in sleep. She felt she'd lost a piece of him, felt it had bled out of her, and she yearned to think of a way to get it back. Perhaps after they returned to work. Perhaps after they left the thriving city and found their way to another quiet town. Perhaps they only needed to spend a night alone, gazing at the stars, letting their curiosity and wonder heal them. Perhaps they needed to rediscover the child-like awe, in the sky, in each other, they had once held.

He shivered beneath her touch, or perhaps it was the cold, winter air; she couldn't be sure. He was trembling, unsettled. He was cold, and worried and hurting and whether the tremble rose from her touch or the air, or the pain of the past couple weeks, it did not matter. She slipped from his arms in his slumber and crept around the bed. Lifting the blanket, she tucked herself into his back. One hand pushed under his arm, and she wrapped her arm around him. Her palm slid over his chest, grazing the width of him over and over. His body seemed to settle. Pressing herself closer, her fingers curled over the collar of his chemise. Drifting to sleep, she held him until he woke.

Her own waking came under the soft gaze of his blue eyes. His expression held the same wonder it had months past, in that other city, in that other life. His touch was as tentative and as reverent as the first time, so unbelieving. She stared up at him, wondered how he could still look so in awe, and she felt nervous beneath his gaze. Her eyes flickered to his lips, watching, waiting to see if they'd fall to hers. His hand landed on her side, his thumb circling over her hip. His eyes moved down to his hand, and still, she waited. Finally, his lips pressed to hers, brief, and warm and gentle, and so much like the first time. Then, he fell to her side, pulled her into his arms, and wept again. Tears in her eyes, her arms wrapped about him. "We're still here," she whispered into his shoulder, and they were.


	73. The Bohemian, XX

**The Bohemian, XX**

They passed one last day inside. Speaking in low, delicate tones in between passages of sleep, Sarah had convinced Guilbert it was time for him to return to work. Though his apprehensions left him hesitant, she was able to offer him reassurances. It was time. They could not stay cooped up in their bed forever. He needed the return to work as much as the men in the lab needed that one, or two, extra hands.

Though she felt restless and ready to be up, and around, she let him hold her for the day. They touched softly, as though it was the first time, kissed softly, moved together and held each other in gentle embrace. His eyes held a deep look, questioning glances. _Is this alright?_ He would press his hand to her stomach, where the beginnings of life had once been, and let his sorrow show in his eyes. Could he touch her where they had lost? She pressed into his hand, tugged on his back, and held him to her.

He fell to sleep before she did. In the darkness of night, when she could no longer see his features, but make out the dim shadow of him, she lifted her fingers to his face. A breath between them, her fingers wandered above his features, tingling in the air above his skin, falling to a soft touch on rare occasion. Her middle finger glided over the length of his nose, her ring and index fingers dragging over closed eyelids. Her thumb brushed over the hair of his eyelashes and wandered over again, back and forth. A sigh escaped his mouth and she leaned into it, swallowing the sigh and letting her forehead fall to his. She breathed him in and a tear fell, his quiet beauty almost too much for her at the moment.

It was a rare moment to see him at such peace, and it lasted only a brief moment. He pulled away from her, mumbling in his sleep, tossing himself to his other side. Sarah pushed herself up to look at him, leaning in close to see him in the dark. His face looked wretched, pained. She reached to touch him, to soothe him, but her touch was followed by a strangled sob, as though it was in his imaginings, a ghost of a touch he may never feel again.

She stared at him, wondering if she should wake him. Instead, she watched his nightmare pass through him. The seconds passed like minutes, and then, he was quiet. His arms settled. His body fell flat against the mattress. The tension passed from his frame, and he reached for her.

She let him hold her for a moment, her glance traveling between the window and his face. Outside, it was clear, the clearest night they'd had since winter had begun. The temperature, too, had risen slightly, and though it was still cold, the air did not have the bitter chill of the past several weeks.

Sarah pulled herself from her husband's arms, moving over to the window to look out. She glanced back at Guilbert and came to a decision. Pulling on her warmest cloths, she bundled up, her frock over her breeches, her chemise and doublet over her frock, her flat cap upon her head, pulled down so that her ears were tucked in. Then, she approached the bed.

"Guilbert," she whispered, her hand falling to his shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. "Guilbert, wake up."

He mumbled and turned, and she shook him once again. "Guilbert."

Slowly his eyes opened. He stared up at her, the remnants of a tear in one sleepy eye. His eyes wandered over her clothed body and he sat up. "Sarah? What is it?"

"Get up. We're going for a walk."

"A walk? Are you mad?"

She smirked. "Not in the least. Come on. I want to go for a walk. The night is clear, so clear, we can see all of the stars."

She watched him smile. "You want to go stargazing?"

"Yes."

His eyes lit up pleasantly. They traveled over her clothed form again. She grinned as his eyebrow cocked at her unusual outfit.

"I want to keep warm," she muttered.

"Clearly."

"Get up."

"As you wish." Guilbert stood and began pulling on clothing. As he did so, Sarah pulled the top blanket from their bed, rolling it up and tucking it under her arm. Guilbert clasped her hand and took the blanket from her. "Here, allow me." Sarah only smiled, her hand tugging his towards the door.

They strolled hand in hand through the darkened streets, moving through the narrow paths lined with houses. When they reached open space, she could feel Guilbert wanting to linger and tugged him along, until they reached the base of Petrin Hill.

The snow did not discourage her. Pulling on Guilbert's hand, her feet left the stone streets of the city, and fell to the snow covered ground of the hill. Guilbert's hand held hers in a firm grip, pulling back on her, discouraging her from continuing. She glanced at him, challenging him with a look, and pulled herself free of his grip. He would follow, she knew, though only after trying to argue her out of the climb.

"Sarah," he called as she began her hike.

"Come on, Guilbert."

"It's night. We can't see anything. There is snow on the ground. Your feet will get soaked."

"The best view will be from the top of the hill."

"You'll catch a fever making the climb."

She could tell from the quiver in his voice he was worried for her health. She sighed. Perhaps it would be better to view the sky from another location, Charles Bridge, perhaps. It would ease his fears. Still, this was for them, for him. "Guilbert, I'm fine. It's not that far. Trust me."

"Sarah…"

She continued to hike up the steep slope, glancing back. "Are you coming?" She turned back to the hill. Behind her, she could hear him scramble to catch up. His hand caught hers. "Alright, let's go."

Sarah smiled. They followed the slope up along Hladová zeď , The Hunger Wall. They passed the snow covered land that would be ripe with vineyards in the spring and summer. When the sloped got steep, Sarah had to pull her hand from Guilbert's and place it on the ground to keep her balance. She could feel his hands on her hips, his grip tight. "Maybe we should head back."

Sarah shook her head. She pushed herself up and took the final steps to the summit. "We're here."

Immediately she began digging in the snow, making a hole for them to burrow in to. She took the blanket from Guilbert and placed half of it in the hold. Laying on it, she extended her hand to him and tugged him down with her. She pulled the rest of the blanket over their bodies and cocooned into Guilbert's embrace, her head resting on his arm, her cold hands wrapped around his torso and tucked into his doublet. Her eyes traveled up to the sky, brilliant in the night. His eyes, she could feel upon her.

"Are you warm?" he asked, gently and she nodded. She was. She snuggled further in, her face close to his. His breaths were warm on her neck. "Tell me a story," she whispered.

Watching the sky above, she lay as Guilbert's soft words filled her. At moments, she could feel his gaze on her, but often, she knew he turned his wonder filled eyes to the sky and the thought made her smile. His narration was as it had been in past days. His soft voice teaching as it had in Pardubice. He spoke of old philosophers, of the Greeks and their understanding, their wisdom and of how man had lost that wisdom, exchanged it for ideas that fit their beliefs. The reverence in his voice had matched the days of their first meeting, and for some time, he was that boy again, not beaten down by life, but finding meaning in the sky. It was just the two of them, only two, and the stars, and so much else was inconsequential.

For awhile they lay, his finger pointing to the sky, to a constellation, to Kepler's star, to the faint trace of the moon. When his hand fell, it always fell to her, a gentle caress that came from a love gained. It was as it used to be, and it wasn't. Though the awe was the same and the moment so similar, it now came with an intimacy and knowledge of lives shared. His touch had changed. No longer was it tentative or uncertain, but sure, definitive, adoring. She no longer wondered how that touch would feel, and yet still yearned for it all the same.

* * *

Though his fears for her health had not eased, Guilbert had to admit, with great and somewhat anxious reluctance, that her idea had its merits. Burrowed in their snow trench, tucked away from the night breeze, they were warm. There was little wind, the air still and cool, but not cold. He enjoyed how the narrow trench pressed their bodies close together, how they could generate heat by proximity, how it was absolutely necessary to have Sarah's body laid out right beside his, in his arms.

There was also something she drew out of him, something unnamable, that left him feeling lighter. The sky was brilliant, the night, full of Sarah's brilliant questions and her gentle inquiries and her subtle nudges into tales, far more brilliant. He felt younger, the childlike awe he once held returning. The night, with the cool air and Sarah, so pretty, so fair, pressed to his body, rejuvenated him. It was only them, the two of them, and life and he knew then, what it was he wanted, and it was no more than this.

He clasped her hand, holding it above her chest, feeling her heart beat beneath his hand. He continued to speak softly, passing on stories and myths, telling her all he could think of. At certain moments, he would stop, and stare up at the sky and let his thoughts take him. His breath pillowed in the air before him, visible in the cool night. He watched as his breaths joined Sarah's, sealing together and becoming one in the night.

A cool breeze passed over them, and he felt Sarah shiver. Pulling her deeper into his embrace, he pondered whether the night chill would settle in, and decided that they'd been out in the cold for long enough.

Edging himself over her in the narrow trench, he pressed his lips to hers, his mouth moving over hers. "Thank you," he whispered, breaking from their kiss.

Sarah nodded beneath him. One hand lifted and rubbed over her arms. "We should get back."

She nodded again. Guilbert waited a moment before pushing up from the ground and standing over her. He extended his hand and helped her up, pulling her to him. His hand moved over her flat cap, adjusting it on her head. Wrapping his arm around her, he led her from the hill.

In the warmth of their room, only so warm as the shelter could make it, he stripped the layers from his body, stopping to help Sarah strip the layers from her own. Sinking into the bed, he pulled back the remaining covers and waited for Sarah to climb in. When she was tucked inside, he moved in with her, shivering as cold hands and feet met skin. Rubbing his hands over her, wanting only to warm her, he felt Sarah begin to move with him, her own hands rubbing over him, her limbs winding around him. His mouth fell to her neck, kissing along it as Sarah stripped him of his chemise.

Skin on skin would be warmer, he reasoned, lifting the nightgown she had dawned from her lithe body. Movement would generate heat, and so he moved with her, running his hands over her skin, pulling her legs up along his, kissing, caressing, tangling.

Sarah had him in hand, and only then did he let awareness sink in. Afraid to hurt her, he stopped. Sarah arched into him, her hips pressing to his.

"Sarah, are you sure?"

He felt her nod against his neck, her mouth pressing kisses to his skin. He paused and stilled and asked again.

"Please," she responded and his apprehensions could not stop him from answering her plea. He moved over her, trailing his mouth over her skin, letting his hands wander over her beautiful form. Cold fingers and toes slid over skin, warming on contact. Limbs moved and tangled in a sweet, slow dance. Bodies collapsed and shifted into an embrace. Sated and warm, finally warm, he folded her into his chest, plummeting into sleep.


	74. The Bohemian, XXI

**The Bohemian, XXI**

There was some residual fear left over from leaving Sarah back at their flat, but he pushed past it. The night before seemed to have had an enchanting quality to it. It refreshed him, restored to him an inspiration fogged by recent circumstance. He'd been charmed, both by Sarah and by the stars, once again.

After telling Jiri that Tomas would be alright, Jiri wasted no time in teasing Guilbert about how he stayed by the youth's side during the ordeal. Guilbert took the good natured ribbing well, frowning slightly, changing topics, but allowing Jiri to carry on without saying much to end it.

"Guilbert, tell me, did you comfort Tomas in his distress? When he was chilled, did you warm his body with yours?"

Guilbert shook his head, moving away from Jiri, and back to his work. Jiri followed behind him. "Did our fair youth mumble your name in his fever?"

"Is there not work for you to be doing, Jiri?"

"Fairly little. While you were off playing nursemaid, the rest of the lab worked."

"So it is only when I am not around that you work?" Guilbert teased back.

"Ah, Guilbert, I work and tease in one motion. That is my talent."

"That is your misfortune."

"No, Guilbert, considering you and Tomas are the source and target of my teasing, I would say it is yours."

Guilbert could only nod. Tomas was correct. It certainly was his misfortune.

The morning passed into afternoon, and then, neared into evening. He was very busy, stirred by his work once again, and not ready to put it down. Sarah was at home though, so with little thought, he left his calculations out on the table and hurried home to Sarah.

Returning to her, he told her of his day, of the calculations Kepler had them making. It seemed as though Kepler had hit upon some point, and was waiting for his assistants to confirm it.

Sarah smiled as Guilbert spoke, her eyes sparkling. Guilbert's own eyes were alight as he told Sarah of all he'd worked on. They dimmed only when she insisted upon returning to work the next day. He insisted she stay and rest, but she would not be swayed. He conceded, knowing that to attempt to argue with her would only make her more firm in her point.

The next morning, the lab was frantic with activity. He'd expected teasing from Jiri, but Jiri was far too busy to spare Tomas's return a thought. Every assistant was going over the same calculations over and over. Guilbert watched for only a moment as Sarah dove right into the work, as enthused and brilliant as ever.

He thought of how he was ready to leave, to work on his own or rather in only partnership with Sarah. He was even more ready. There was excitement at the lab, but once Kepler's theory was either confirmed or disproved, he'd have felt like he'd accomplished something in Prague and would be ready to move forward to another city, another theory, another phase of life.

His eyes moved over each calculation, his hands moving through formula, scribbling upon paper, confirming Kepler's theory worked. On a large table, he drew the Sun, and then he drew Mars. The tip of his pen pressed down on Mars and circled around the Sun, the line forming an oval shape. Mars's orbit was elliptical. The math worked.

Guilbert stared down at his drawing. It was nearly identical to the drawing Kepler had placed before them. As he had traced over the drawing of Kepler's star the October before, he began tracing over the path of Mars's orbit. It lent strong evidence to Copernicus's model of the Universe, the sun at the center. It was a monumental discovery and it left him in awe. People would argue it, he knew. The Church would argue it, but it was there, and the math offered proof.

His finger circled the orbit again. That every calculation, that every precise measurement, led Kepler to this moment, this realization, this truth, was incredible. Guilbert was so in awe, he could not remove his eyes from the diagram, nor could he stop the motion of his finger, still tracing the path of the orbit along the chart. He glanced up and behind to see Sarah smiling at him. She approached slowly and traced over the orbit with him.

"Do you feel like we're helping to change history?" she asked in a whisper, her voice filled with wonder.

"Right now," he stopped tracing the orbit and looked at her. "Yes."

Sarah smiled before him. He watched her eyes stare down at his drawing and took a moment to study her. Her eyes were still lit with awe, but also contained a hint of fatigue.

"You look tired," he spoke quietly.

Sarah shook her head, but the movement did not contain any conviction.

"Perhaps you should go home and rest."

"But…"

"We've discovered all we can today. The math is done. The proof is there. You can share in the glory, but as for work, there isn't anything left to do. Go home. I'll be there shortly."

Sarah nodded. Guilbert was tempted to place a soft kiss upon her cheek, but would not dare with a lab full of people, and Jiri around. Instead, he offered Sarah a small smile, grasped her hand and squeezed lightly, and then watched her exit the lab.

He stayed around for only a short time longer. Putting away his work and speaking to his colleagues about confirming Kepler's calculations, he made to leave. Jiri walked with him on the journey back to their boarding house, thankfully saying nothing of Tomas, but only speaking of the work they'd done.

He left Jiri at his room and moved down the hall towards his own. Sarah stepped out before he reached the door, still dressed as Tomas, and he quickly took her in his arms, kissing her.

So caught up in the kiss, Guilbert did not notice Jiri coming out of his room and standing in the hall, staring at the two fair youths whose lips were embracing. Guilbert continued to kiss Sarah, holding her warm body to his, wishing he could feel her figure beneath her manly cloths, but knowing that moment was not far off. His hands ran over her, unconscious of Jiri watching, unconscious of everything but her. Guilbert's hands moved up her back and he pulled back for a moment, smiling at her, at his renewed inspiration, at Kepler's new discovery. He lifted Sarah's feet from the floor, spinning her in the air as he tipped his head up to kiss her again. The flat cap slipped from her head.

"My ghost!"


	75. The Bohemian, XXII

**A/N: **I'm terribly sorry. It felt like this story kind of ran away from me, so I've been spending the past, I don't know how long, trying to reel it back in. I guess that is what happens when one isn't exactly sure of where one is going from the start. I also thought I'd have more time over the holidays to work on it, but that didn't really happen and with a couple of other stories to distract me... Anyways, here it is. I promise to try to be a lot quicker with my next update.

**The Bohemian, XXII**

In a matter of seconds, Sarah had torn herself from his arms and disappeared into their room. Spinning, his eyes and mouth wide, his skin tone washed, Guilbert looked to Jiri.

Jiri's own eyes were wide and intent as he stepped towards the closed door, his focus solely on the barrier and not at all on Guilbert. Quickly Guilbert stepped in front of Jiri and stopped him with a hand on Jiri's chest. "Jiri…"

"My ghost."

Jiri moved to step past him, but Guilbert only grasped his arm. "Jiri, stop."

"Let me go, Guilbert. That is my ghost."

Low, calm and quiet, Guilbert repeated his command. "Stop."

For seconds Guilbert watched Jiri stare at the door. Finally, Jiri's eyes moved around to him. "Guilbert? Tomas? My ghost?"

Guilbert shook his head. "That is not your ghost, Jiri. She is not yours. That is my wife."

Jiri's eyes were glazed as he stared at Guilbert. "Your wife?"

Guilbert nodded. "Yes."

"You were kissing Tomas. Tomas is the girl that I saw."

Again, Guilbert nodded.

"You're married?"

There was another short nod.

"How long?"

Guilbert sighed. "A few months."

"A few months…" Jiri's voice was quiet as he considered the response. His eyes narrowed on Guilbert. "Here, in Prague?"

Guilbert nodded again.

"I saw no bans published."

"There were none."

"So it is a clandestine marriage. It is not legal. I could still win her over, marry her myself."

Guilbert pinched his eyes shut. He opened them and allowed them to focus on Jiri's eyes. "Our union is lawful in the eyes of God. She is my wife."

Jiri stopped and looked as though he was finally allowing himself to fully consider Guilbert's words. He let out a long sigh. "Married?"

Guilbert nodded once again.

"A few months?"

Another nod. There was a moment when neither spoke. Jiri pursed his lips, the information seeping in. "You've known for awhile, then?" He paused again. "But not at the start." Jiri shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. "And I implored for you to take young Tomas in, told you that it was you who wanted to help the youth. I could have allowed the boy to stay with me, discovered her form myself and had her warm my bed."

Guilbert swallowed, knowing that it could have been an outcome. He pushed the thought aside, the better part of him knowing that Sarah had loved only him, even then. It was their love that was responsible for the actual outcome, not because he'd taken her in, nor because he'd discovered her first. He shook his head. "It wouldn't have happened that way, Jiri."

Jiri raised a brow. "No?"

"No." Guilbert paused and pursed his lips. "I have loved that girl for a long time now. Even before I realized it was her hidden beneath boys' robes. I knew her in Pardubice. I fell in love with her then."

Jiri's eyes narrowed in thought. "The girl you pined for? This is she?"

Guilbert nodded.

"So why did you not marry her then?"

Guilbert took a moment to study Jiri and to consider his next words. Opening his mouth only to close it, Guilbert slowly shook his head. To make Jiri understand, he had to offer some admissions. Sighing, he began, "When I worked in Pardubice, I boarded across the street from her family's home. At night, I would climb onto my roof and lay down, gazing up at the stars. Sarah would sneak from her bed to join me, lying beside me." He paused. "She was so interested in everything, and so insightful." He sighed. "When we touched…" He stopped.

Turning away, Guilbert gathered his thoughts once again. He turned back to Jiri. "I asked her father for her hand. Because of my convictions, because of my faith in science and belief in a universe in which we are not at the center, he denied my request, offering her hand only if I renounced my beliefs. I came here to work towards arming myself with the truth, hoping that with more evidence, with some valid proofs, I could one day convince him. To her…I only told her I was leaving."

He watched as Jiri leaned against the wall, regarding him. "And the girl?"

"Her father tried to arrange a more suitable marriage for her. When she refused his suitors, he offered her the choice of joining a monastery or marrying one of his chosen men. Refusing to marry any but me, Sarah was shipped off to a convent for the Order of Carmelites. Disguising herself as a boy, she fled from there to here, where we found each other, once again."

Jiri nodded. "And what happens now?"

Shrugging, Guilbert lifted his hand to his head and weaved his fingers through his hair.

Jiri turned to glance at the door with an expression of longing. Watching Jiri stare, Guilbert felt his stomach tighten. After a few seconds, Jiri turned back to Guilbert, his eyes narrowed once again. "A woman cannot work in the lab, unless she cleans, like Antoinette."

Guilbert's eyes widened. "You wouldn't reveal her?"

"Would it matter?"

"Sarah has a gift for math. She has so much to offer."

Jiri smirked and shook his head. "She knows what you've taught her, and, I must admit, is able to reason far better than any other of her sex, but she is still a woman, and any ability to really reason and comprehend the complexities of mathematics and the universe is beyond her. Thus far, only you have worked with her, and likely, in that time, carried her."

"How can you believe that?"

"She is a woman."

Guilbert felt his face growing red. "Indeed, but far more insightful than you." He paused, staring at Jiri, whose own eyes belied anger. "Do you truly believe your words, or is this your revenge?"

"I grant that she is bright, but the lab is no place for her."

"Jiri, work with her and you would grant that she is more than bright."

Jiri seemed ready to strike back, but stopped short. Guilbert watched carefully as Jiri sighed. "You know that I would not reveal her."

"I trust that you wouldn't. Work with her."

Jiri glanced back towards the door and sighed. "Alright."

Stepping forward, Guilbert felt himself swallow. "Would you like to meet her, as a girl, my wife, and not as Tomas?"

Holding his breath, he stared at Jiri, watching as Jiri slowly let his head bob up and down in a hesitant nod.

"Allow me a moment."

Guilbert stepped inside his room, gazing at Sarah seated in the bed, her eyes baring the fear she felt in being unveiled to Jiri. Kneeling before her, Guilbert gently ran his hands up and down her arms. "It's alright. Jiri will not divulge your identity."

She sighed. "No, not intentionally."

"He also knows and accepts that we are married."

Her eyes lifted to his. She raised a brow. He smiled softly, half his mouth curving up to the side. His head tilted forward and his lips found her forehead. He leaned back onto his heels. "I've asked him to meet you, as you."

Her eyebrow rose again. Guilbert let out a small laugh. "It's alright."

"Alright."

Watching her, he waited for her to smile or to smirk and then stood, striding over to the door. Holding the door open, he watched as Sarah stood, smoothing out her breeches and running her hand through her long, loose hair. He stepped to the side and ushered Jiri inside. Closing the door, he looked on as Jiri stared at Sarah. He took a deep breath. "Jiri, I'd like you to meet Sarah, my wife."


	76. The Bohemian, XXIII

**The Bohemian, XXIII**

Sarah watched as Jiri stared at her. Uncomfortable under his gaze, she searched for a way to break it. Finally she smirked, and stepped towards Jiri. "Hello, Jiri."

For a long moment, Jiri continued to stare. His eyes narrowed slightly and Sarah watched as his lips curled into a matching smirk. "Tomas…or rather…?"

"Sarah," she repeated, her smirk growing in a slight challenge.

"Ah, yes, phantom Sarah, keeper of my dreams. Somehow the reality is a fair bit more daunting."

Sarah smiled, her eyes soft and genuine. She stepped towards Guilbert, tucking herself into his side. "Rather less possible as well."

Jiri nodded. "So I've heard." His lips curled up, his smile slightly sad and not quite genuine. He bowed to her. "A pleasure, Sarah."

Giving a slight curtsy, she kept her eyes on Jiri. Rising, she felt the warmth of her husband's palm on the small of her back and she leaned into that warmth. Guilbert's fingers played over her doublet.

Jiri's sad stare resumed. Sarah watched his eyes move between her and her love. Jiri shook his head. "I…" he paused and turned away. "I…" he stuttered again, turning back to her quickly before looking away and adverting his eyes again. His head turned back towards Guilbert. "As much as I would love to remain and witness these tender displays between you and your fair youth, alas, I feel I must exit."

Guilbert nodded beside her. Sarah felt her own head bob up and down in a nod. Tucking herself further into Guilbert's embrace, she watched as Jiri turned to exit the room. Her eyes still on his retreating form, she was surprised when Jiri turned back, his eyes dark and full of mischief. She felt Guilbert tense beside her. Jiri smiled, his mouth turned up in a slightly wicked display. "Guilbert, earlier, I had thought I might go to the brothel to relieve some tension. I was about to inquire whether you would like to join me again, but," he stopped and Sarah watched his smile grow, her own body stiffening at Jiri's words. _Again? _He had to have gone after they'd already met in Pardubice, after he'd left her to come to Prague.

She felt Guilbert's fingers digging into her side as his posture remained stiff. Jiri's eyes flickered to hers as he continued, "I think, under the circumstances, perhaps I should not summon that question."

Guilbert, his side still hard and tense along hers, offered a small nod. "Indeed."

"Well, then, I shall see you later." Jiri turned back toward the door and exited.

When the door closed, Sarah remained stiff beside Guilbert until she felt Guilbert guiding her before him. "Sarah…"

Shaking her head, she looked to the floor. "When?"

"The day we found you. We were returning…I had little hope of seeing you. I was afraid that I might let Antoinette…"

Her body, already stiff, went rigid beneath his hands. She tried to turn away, but he held firm. "Sarah, I couldn't. I almost… I never… I ran out," he finished.

Sarah shook her head and let his warm hands run over his arms. Looking up through the slight prick of tears in her eyes, she met his eyes, full of sorrow and worry, remorse and honesty and love. Though tempted, he hadn't let himself. She leaned into him. "It doesn't matter."

His hands continued to run over the sleeves of her doublet. "I felt sick," he whispered. "I let some young girl touch me, and tried to imagine it was you, but one touch and I fled. I could not bear letting any touch me but you, but I needed you so badly."

She nodded and fell against his chest. It didn't matter. She hadn't really expected him to pass his days alone after their separation. It was before they were really together and he still couldn't do it. She had let some other man, one who disgusted her, touch her and rake a nail over her skin, because, in her fear, she had not known what else to do, though her mind had screamed at her to slap him for taking such liberties. Was that any better? Perhaps slightly more excusable, but she had still let it happen. She shivered at the recollection.

Guilbert's hands ran over her back and she was brought back to a feeling of such warmth and such love. Guilbert loved her, she knew and so she was ready to forgive what a desperate boy would do ease the longing for another. He wouldn't do it now. Feeling safe in the relationship they now possessed, her mind moved to a more pressing problem, that of Jiri. His words were meant to provoke, an act of revenge she was sure, spoken out of hurt, but in those moments she'd also seen something else in Jiri, a sadness, but an ability to still jest and move on.

Guilbert's hand came up and cupped her chin, causing her to look up at him. He looked slightly hesitant. "Thoughts?"

Her thoughts? Having moved past the thought of Guilbert letting another touch him, the thoughts of Jiri were circling around her. Jiri's stare had given her such discomfort. His sadness had made her pause. Serious Jiri was disconcerting and she was thankful for his ability to return her jest in the face of it. Perhaps a return to the jovial Jiri was still possible, if he could move on from the need to return the hurt and pain.

Her mind replayed comforting words once spoken to Guilbert. Jiri did not take much of an interest in Tomas, apart from using as a means to tease Guilbert. He was a man who took joy in the comforts of women. His fantasies played from a brief glance, she in a thin nightgown, still wet beneath it, surely enough to stoke the imagination of any man, even with the thin figure she'd possessed. That any young woman lived in close proximity to Jiri was likely what held the greatest of interest for him. From what she'd gathered, Jiri was quick to move on between interests; that he'd held a torch for her was surprising, but perhaps due to believing it was merely a vision. She wondered if the vision or the reality would be more powerful to him.

Tentatively, Guilbert met her eyes. "Are you still thinking of Jiri's parting words?"

Sarah shook her head and felt Guilbert relax. He paused a moment and his voice came out, hesitant again. "About Jiri and what he may do?"

She nodded.

"Still unsure?" Guilbert's voice was soft and comforting. Sarah nodded again. His hands came up to frame her face. "We are ready to move on anyways, are we not? As soon as winter ends and the snow lifts?"

"Yes," she admitted, nodding again. A few more months were all that was left of their time in Prague. They were both ready to move on, knowing that what they'd sought in the city, they'd found.

"Jiri will not betray our trust, not purposefully. Despite what he may have said, he is a jester, but not a knave."

Sarah smiled at that. If Jiri did betray their trust, she believed it would be accidental, a slipping of the tongue from a loose tongued mouth and not apt to happen immediately. And if that occurred, if she had to cease to work before they were ready to leave, or slightly before Guilbert, it would be fine. She still had him and it was that which she trusted in more than anything. Her forehead fell to his shoulder. Her arms wrapped about his waist. She relished in the feel of his cheek upon her head and his warm hands upon her back. Her head turned slightly, her forehead pressing into his neck. One hand came from around his waist and eased between their bodies. Her fingers came up and curled over the collar of his doublet. Easing the top button from its hole with her long lean fingers, she whispered, "Lay with me."

* * *

Focused on his work, Guilbert only allowed himself rare glimpses of Jiri at work with Sarah. For the first few days, Jiri had ignored Sarah, which had, he had been reluctant to admit, been a small comfort, though not to Sarah. After a few stares Jiri's way, Guilbert had been able to goad Jiri into finally allowing himself to be witness to Sarah's intelligence. For some time now, Jiri had let himself work with Sarah. From what Guilbert could observe, it was going well, Sarah's brilliance surprising Jiri. He smiled softly upon seeing Jiri raise and eyebrow at something Sarah said, and felt a pang in his heart when he wondered, fearfully, if Sarah was inadvertently charming their colleague. Pushing aside the thought he let himself resume his earlier focus.

With Jiri working with Sarah and stealing much of her attention at work, Guilbert had a new problem to contend with and that was of Antoinette, now focusing her sole attention upon him as he was now the only young man around to focus her attention on. Working mostly without notice, he was caught unaware when her body would brush up upon his in her most conspicuous displays ever. He was not unaware of the stares Sarah leveled his way, nor the frown she wore when he gave her a helpless glance.

Ignoring it did not work as it pushed Antoinette to work harder to gain his attentions. Uncomfortable speaking to Antoinette about her coquettish behavior, he tried, instead, to avoid her, but Antoinette always found him, and he wondered at what it was that allowed her to always be able to find something to clean in his area of work. How was she able to clean at all in the lab while they were working? Had none voiced their annoyance in the distraction before, or did they merely not notice?

It certainly did not go beyond Sarah's and Jiri's notice. Whenever Sarah frowned, Guilbert watched Jiri smirk. Whenever the two sets of eyes were on him, Antoinette seemed to heighten her attentions, so that the problem would escalate. It was with minor relief that Guilbert thought the attentions may, in fact, be aimed at Tomas, for it was when the fair youth, his secret wife, was watching, that Antoinette was at her most lethal. Still, that he may be used to such a degree, that Antoinette's attentions were on him at all, that Jiri watched on with nothing more than a smirk, made his comfort level akin to sleeping upon a bed of jagged rocks.


	77. The Bohemian, XXIV

**The Bohemian, XXIV**

For the first few days of her new acquaintance with Jiri, he was sullen. Allowing him to avoid her, she tried to focus on her work and not think anything of it. At times she caught him looking at her and tried to decipher what it was in that look. When he actually allowed himself to begin working with her, he was playful at first, but then became short with her and carried an air of one who is very frustrated. She tried to look to Guilbert, but Antoinette had begun to focus her attentions on Guilbert once again. Her frowns could not escape Jiri's notice.

Focusing on her calculations, she ignored him leaning over her shoulder and checking on her work. The calculations were correct, she knew, but making correct calculations only seemed to annoy Jiri. She was prepared to ignore his annoyance, but was surprised when, instead, she had to try to ignore the brush of his knuckles over her doublet.

Keeping her eyes on her work, she stepped away from Jiri. He stepped closer and she spun on him. "Yes?"

She waited, but Jiri did not speak. Letting out a huff, she turned back to her work, catching a glimpse of Antoinette flitting around Guilbert. Her eyes quickly shot down to her calculations.

Jiri stepped closer once again. He leaned into her ear. "It bothers you."

She didn't speak, but found her eyes lifting quickly to Guilbert.

"You are really in love with him."

Sarah found herself nodding."

"And it is real?"

She turned back to Jiri. "Yes."

"How do you know?"

Sarah opened her mouth to speak and then stopped. How could she explain her love? She sighed. "As a girl, I loved him purely and sweetly. As I blossomed, I loved him passionately. Now, as a woman," she paused, "now, I love him wholly."

She turned back to her work, missing Jiri's nod. She never saw Jiri again for a couple of days.

* * *

Walking Sarah back to their flat, Guilbert was surprised to see Jiri storming towards them with great urgency, looking very irritated.

"Guilbert, I must speak with you."

Guilbert shared a look with Sarah and watched as she turned into their building. He turned back to Jiri and raised an eyebrow. "What is it you'd like to speak about, Jiri?"

"Your wife."

He felt himself swallow. "What about her?"

"Ever since I have discovered her identity…" Jiri stopped. Turning back and forth, his hands flew about the air. "I go to the brothel, and these wonderful hands are all over me, touching me, pleasuring me. I close my eyes and picture your wife, wet beneath a thin nightgown, blossoming into a woman, and the touch of a young prostitute is almost too much." Jiri paused and Guilbert's heart stopped. After giving Guilbert a pointed look, Jiri continued, "Then, the image in my mind morphs into a young boy and I see Tomas, fair and skinny, and I die in these young women's hands. I am no longer able to be pleasured and I can see these young girls trying to suppress their laughs. I leave, every time, without desire, without the fulfillment of pleasure and utterly mortified. Your wife still haunts me, but not in the way that once caused me to tremble. I can no longer picture her without seeing Tomas. The image of her denies me of all pleasure. Tell me," he pleaded, "when you bed her, do you see the same?"

Guilbert bit back a laugh. As much as it had wounded and troubled him to hear that Jiri was picturing his wife when bedding the prostitutes at the brothels and when receiving pleasure, he could not help but feel a slight satisfaction at Jiri's plight. Containing his smirk, he looked at Jiri. "I see only Sarah."

"How? She is no girl. She is too thin and is flat enough to pass for a boy. Even her mind is that of a man's. She contains none of the virtues of the fairer sex. The one image I have of her before knowing her as Tomas is the only image I can summon of any womanly quality. After knowing her as a boy, how can you see her as the girl?"

"I see her as herself. I loved her as Sarah and then, still as Tomas, Jiri." He paused and studied Jiri. "What is it that really bothers you, Jiri? That you no longer desire my wife?"

"That she disrupts my pleasure."

Guilbert allowed himself a small laugh. "Well, the solution seems simple enough, Jiri; when you visit the brothels, stop imagining her."

"If only that could solve all of my troubles. That one image is powerful and not easy to banish and it is not the least of my worries." Jiri paused and sighed. "No, it worries me more that the image can morph into that of Tomas's. My pleasure is over and now, now, when I walk down the street and see a pretty youth, I cannot help but look, wondering what is beneath. I see a boy with graceful lines and fair features and it causes me no little discomfort. What more would it take for my mind to imagine the boy beneath the robes and to sprout at the thought?"

Guilbert let out a full out laugh. "You're worried you may be attracted to our sex?"

"Having loved Tomas as Tomas, you are not?"

Guilbert shook his head. "No." He stopped and caught Jiri's eyes. "Jiri, you told me that when the image of my wife morphs into that of a boy, you lose your desire. If you desired the boy, when your eyes were closed and you were imagining the boy, your desire would not die." He paused again, swallowing, slightly concerned about the effect his next words would have. "It is the image of the girl that fuels your desire."

Jiri stared at him. "So when I find myself looking at these pretty youths?"

"Perhaps you are wondering if there is another fair maiden masquerading as the youth, another girl in boy's cloths."

The relief in Jiri was expressed in a loud sigh. "That would be far less confusing. The discomfort all of this confusion has caused…"

Guilbert nodded. "Perhaps it would be best for you to find another object of desire, one who is more than a vision and who's virtues you have not conjured up in the desire to perfect that vision, one more appropriate, and one whose heart is free to return your love."

Jiri nodded. "As always, you are my superior in wisdom. I'm sorry, Guilbert."

Guilbert shook his head. "Think not of it, Jiri."

A squeeze of Jiri's shoulder, he left his colleague and slipped into the boarding house. He climbed the stairs and entered the small flat to find Sarah seated on the bed, her doublet removed, but still in her flat cap and breeches and chemise. He strode towards her, ignoring her worried look and raised brow. Wrapping his arms about her torso, he bent her backwards over the bed and kissed her. Positioning himself above him, he stared down at her. He saw only Sarah, always Sarah, fair and thin and lithe beneath baggy clothing, so utterly beautiful in his eyes, and he kissed her again.

* * *

Guilbert did not tell her of the conversation he'd had with Jiri, but whatever words had been spoken seemed to have had a great affect on the man. Jiri became playful again, still working with her, no longer short, and beginning to value her input. Work was easy, Jiri's lighthearted banter easing the discomfort of his earlier attentions or lack of. Watching Antoinette try to steal Guilbert's attentions did not become any easier.

"Why," Jiri asked, "knowing how Guilbert loves you, does it bother you to see Antoinette's attentions fixed upon him?"

Sarah shook her head. "I do not know."

"I am still not convinced that it is he that she is after." Sarah turned to Jiri, her brow raised. Jiri smirked in return and leaned into her ear. "It still may be Tomas," he whispered, conspiratorially. "Her attentions heighten when you watch them and she gazes at you with one who has great conviction of being in love."

"What is it to you, Jiri?"

Jiri shrugged. "I've become rather fond of you and Guilbert. He is a man without an equal and I am very much happily convinced there is no equal to you in any woman."

Sarah raised another brow. Jiri smiled. His expression turned a little guiltier. "I am sorry for the comment I made about the brothel when I first discovered you. My more wicked self wanted to undermine your relationship with Guilbert."

Sarah's breath caught. She nodded in acceptance of his apology, though the nod was soft and did not hold much conviction.

"It was only one visit, before you came to Prague and he did not do anything, Sarah. He was waiting outside when I finished, and I teased him about being quick, but his fleeing the brothel shortly after arrival could not have escaped anyone's notice. I thought it better to tease him about speed than about inability."

Sarah felt her lips turn up in a small smile. "He told me."

Jiri nodded. "And I am sorry about the brushes of my hand upon you, or the proximity I sometimes placed upon you. I…in my frustration, I was trying to regain the image of the girl I once saw. I assure you, that dream has passed. I would very much like to be your friend, though."

The smile on Sarah's face blossomed into a wide, genuine one. "I'd like that, Jiri."

Jiri smiled a smile to match. "Now," he began, "about Antoinette, while it used to amuse me, this triangle between you, and while, I must admit, it still does, especially knowing what I now know, I would like to help you out."

"Really?" she asked, her brow raised.

"Yes. I've played with you and Guilbert enough. I think now it is time to play with Antoinette and see what amusement that would bring me."

Sarah found herself frowning at Jiri's words, concerned over the levity by which he expressed playing with people. Beneath it all, though, Jiri was good-hearted and she felt she ought to give him enough benefit to allow him to explain. "What," she asked, cautiously, "did you have in mind?"

Jiri let out a thoughtful breath. "I think, perhaps I should court her and take her attentions off of Guilbert and subsequently, you."

"Do you think you could?"

Jiri smiled. "It could be fun to attempt. Besides, Antoinette's attentions were once on me, before Guilbert arrived. Knowing how she sought another's before mine, and knowing her capacity to cuckold whomever she does catch, I paid her little attention, and watched, with much amusement, when she switched over to Guilbert on his arrival. Though her interest in him and then in you, far surpassed the interest she ever expressed in me, I think, with a little interest in my part, I could convince her to turn her attentions back onto this forgotten man."

Sarah laughed. She looked to Antoinette Guilbert and turned a more serious eye back to Jiri. "I do not like the thought of playing with people."

"Were you not guilty of it when you paid your attentions to Antoinette to stop her paying hers to Guilbert?"

Sarah paused. Being honest with herself, she had to nod. It was something that she had not intentionally thought to do, but she was guilty of the crime Jiri had accused her of. "Jiri, Guilbert and I can try to discourage her."

"Ah, yes, you could. We've all seen the success you've had at that." He stopped and caught her eye. "Sarah, regardless of what you say, I have put it into my mind to court her. She will not be hurt, but if anyone is, it will be I. I am turning myself over to someone who could and might very well cuckold me."

She had to laugh. "Jiri, if you choose to court her, do not do it for Guilbert or me, and do not hurt her."

"Sarah, I only mean to discourage her from seeking yours and Guilbert's attentions. Perhaps, all she needs is a little attention on her. Would you deny her of that?"

"Jiri, I should not deny her anything she truly deserves, but I should not want to be a part of your scheme."

"Very well." Jiri smirked. "I only wanted you not to feel slighted when I turned my attentions onto her." Shaking her head, Sarah laughed and returned to her work.


	78. The Bohemian, XXV

**A/N: **My sincerest apologies for not updating in such a long time. This story really got away from me and I have spent a great deal of time thinking of how to bring it back. I did also get lost in a couple of other stories, but this one was never far from my thoughts. To my relief, I think I found a way to bring this story back and to my even greater relief, this life will soon be coming to a close. With a fresh new life on the horizon, those of you who have actually had the patience to stick with me should be rewarded with quicker updates in the future. For those of you who are reading my Greg fic, an update on that one will come very shortly.

**The Bohemian, XXV**

Confusion mingled with relief when he observed Jiri's usual hasty arrival at the lab, followed by a quite unusual occurrence. His colleague had been very routine in approaching him first, offering up a characteristic tease, before moving on to work with Sarah for the day. That Jiri's sights had moved from him and Sarah to Antoinette with such abruptness caused no shortage of bafflement. Guilbert allowed himself the pleasure of working with Sarah, nay, Tomas, but still found himself distracted by the attentions Jiri had turned towards Antoinette.

Noticing that he had missed something Sarah had said he turned to her, taking in her pinched brow. "I'm sorry," he spoke, glancing around before giving her hand a gentle squeeze. He glanced back around again, catching sight of Jiri pursuing Antoinette and Antoinette side-stepping his pursuit. "Tell me," he whispered to Sarah, the corner of his eye on Jiri and Antoinette, "do you have any idea what brought about this change in Jiri?"

Sarah glanced at him. One brow arched. "So, it's Jiri's behavior you are concerned with?"

Guilbert found himself frowning. He did not care for Jiri's antics, but most times felt them to be harmless. He was not sure of what to make of this though and that left him uncertain. He shrugged. "No more than our own." He paused and frowned again. "I must admit to some curiosity though. Jiri once told me he'd resisted Antoinette's advances before I arrived and warned me of Antoinette's capacity to cuckold. Though I am slightly relieved of the burden of worrying whether he might be pursuing you, I am curious as to why would he choose to pursue her now."

Sarah smiled softly, the corners of her mouth lifting delicately. "He believes he is helping us by taking her attentions from you."

Guilbert frowned. "I am not convinced it was my attentions she was actually seeking."

Sarah smirked. "Then from us."

"From you."

"Alright, from me, if you choose to believe so."

"Would you not?"

"I would not. Was it me, her attentions have been fixed on for the past couple of weeks? Was it not thou?"

Guilbert scoffed. "Her attentions were only on me in an effort to seek yours."

"A dangerous risk she took. And if you had returned hers, would she not have accepted?"

Guilbert threw a hand over his heart. "The point is moot, fair Tomas, for mine eye hast never wandered from thou." He glanced over once again at Jiri and Antoinette. "At any rate, I wish the man good fortune, and hope he does not get hurt in the event he succeeds."

Cocking her head to the side, he watched as Sarah's face grew into a frown. "You worry about Jiri getting hurt?"

"Far more than Antoinette, for I have heard her attentions could be quite lethal." He watched as Sarah's face broke into a smile. He frowned at her. "And that is amusing?"

He watched as Sarah shook her head. "No," she said, "but the irony bids me to smile."

If it were possible, Guilbert's brow pinched inwards even more. "Perhaps not quite fatal, but nearly so."

Sarah's brow arched again. Guilbert looked upon her with softness and let his own face relax into a smile. He turned back to his work, content to ignore Jiri's antics and Antoinette's subsequent dismissals of them.

For the present time, however, it was hard to concentrate on work with so much clownery going on in the lab. Guilbert watched with growing consternation as Jiri inadvertently played the part of the court jester, amusing those around him with his pursuit of fair Antoinette, while Antoinette left him cold. Her attempts to dissuade Jiri resulted in more of her attentions upon Guilbert, while Guilbert tried to dissuade them under the withering gaze of his wife, disguised in boy's clothing, the youth, Tomas. While he pushed back, Antoinette advanced, though he was not sure why, for he was certain that it was Tomas who had really captured the majority of Antoinette's fancy. Perhaps Antoinette thought he posed more of a rival to Jiri than the fair and delicate boy, Tomas, for while Antoinette increased her attentions upon Guilbert as Jiri increased his attentions upon her, Antoinette's eyes still flickered to the boy youth often.

It was time to get out of there, and with haste. He did not like these distractions. Soon, soon they could leave, for the snow would shortly have lifted and travel would be easier. Then, he and Sarah could wander to a place where there was only each other and work and the inspiration he found in both.

The idea of leaving in haste was brought home as Guilbert felt Antoinette sidle up to him as he worked, brushing a breast upon his arm and smiling with clever satisfaction when the movement caused Tomas's eyes to narrow in a glare. Guilbert felt his breath hold as he stepped away from Antoinette and chanced a glance at Sarah. Antoinette was also watching Tomas. Perhaps Antoinette thought she was getting to Tomas by attending to him.

Guilbert had felt that it was enough. He'd come to Prague for the work and the proofs that might allow him to carve out a life with Sarah. Now he had the proofs and he had Sarah. He wanted no part in these antics, though he knew he had been guilty of some of them before, but only in confusion over what his feelings for Tomas had been. Grasping Antoinette by the arms, he told her outright that it would not happen, but Antoinette's satisfied smile only grew as she leaned into Guilbert and let her lips brush over his ear. "I know," she whispered as though it was of little concern, and Guilbert watched as she glanced back at Tomas to see the reaction on the youth's face.

Jiri, Guilbert noticed, looked upon the scene with despondence. Sarah, for her part, must have had enough, for she turned on the two, ready, Guilbert was sure, to lecture Antoinette on appropriate workplace behavior, for Guilbert was about to begin that lecture himself. Antoinette, seemingly satisfied at provoking a reaction, turned to Tomas, thinking the youth to be turning on her for another reason. Before either Guilbert or Tomas could begin their reprimand on Antoinette, she stopped them short. Just as Tomas had brazenly kissed Guilbert the fall before, so did the coquettish Antoinette brazenly let her lips fall upon Tomas.

Guilbert's mouth opened in shock as his wife sputtered and stepped back from Antoinette. Eyes wide, Sarah looked at Antoinette before glancing at Guilbert. Guilbert glanced between the two women, both fair and delicate, one in a maiden's clothes, though without the virtues of a young maiden, and the other a true maiden, fair and lovely, hidden beneath a boy's garments. Antoinette was smiling at Tomas, an invitation written upon her face. Sarah looked at him with nothing but shock. Speechless, he could say nothing but look on as his own wife seemed to lose her capacity for speech as well. She turned and quickly left. Guilbert watched as Antoinette moved to follow, but was stopped by a pleading Jiri. Guilbert left Jiri to Antoinette and followed after Sarah.

Sarah stood outside the lab, trembling in the cold, winter air. Guilbert stopped in front of her. She looked up at him, her brown eyes still wide with shock. "It is time to leave," she said.

He nodded. This whole thing was getting ridiculous, Jiri at first in love with his wife, but now trying to help her by turning his attentions to Antoinette, Antoinette trying to deflect Jiri's attentions by turning hers even more to Guilbert, Sarah having to dress as a boy and deflect the attentions of the over attentive young maiden… Guilbert wanted to be somewhere he and Sarah could be man and wife and not be bothered by suitors or vixens, or worries about Sarah's discovery. "As soon as the snow lifts, Sarah," he said, grasping her softly by the arms. "As soon as we are able to freely travel."

Sarah nodded. He glanced around and saw no one. Lowering his lips to Sarah's, he kissed her with brief tenderness before releasing her. "Let us grab our things and call it a day. I have not the energy for any more of this."

Sarah nodded again and lifted her mouth back to his for a deeper kiss. He raised a brow and watched her wide eyes look up into his. "I only want to remember your lips upon mine," she said and he nodded, kissing her once again to aid in her wishes.

* * *

The pounding on the door interrupted their cocoon of warmth, where plans were being made and reassurances being given. Guilbert frowned, dropping his arms from Sarah's frame and placing a kiss upon her crown. He moved to the door and opened it.

In the hall, Jiri was pacing back and forth, crossing the width of space each time in only two short steps, the hall so narrow. One hand rested below his other arm's elbow. The hand that the elbow supported was fisted before Jiri's mouth, the tip of the thumb caught between Jiri's teeth. Jiri glanced up at Guilbert and paced more. Guilbert frowned. "What is it, Jiri?"

Jiri stopped, dropped his hands and then lifted them again and paced some more. A few more traverses of the hall and Jiri stopped again, spinning on Guilbert. "I have a problem."

Guilbert raised a brow. He opened his door wide. "Come in."

Jiri glanced inside at Sarah. He shook his head. "No…no, perhaps a walk in private?"

Finding himself nodding beneath a frown, Guilbert turned to Sarah and informed her that he was leaving and hoped not to be long. He followed Jiri to the street.

Jiri's movements were anxious as the walked along the streets that evening. "I have a problem," he said.

Guilbert nodded. "So you've told me. Pray, tell me, Jiri, what is this problem." He closed his eyes and offered up a prayer that it had nothing to do with Sarah.

"It's about Tomas," Jiri said and Guilbert stilled. His eyes shot to Jiri's. Jiri glanced at him and dropped his eyes. "That is only part of the problem. Perhaps I should start from the beginning."

Guilbert nodded, watching Jiri. Jiri withered beneath his gaze and then looked up. "Perhaps, not really about Tomas, but more about Antoinette."

Guilbert continued to watch Jiri, waiting.

Jiri paced in the street and turned back to Guilbert. "I find myself infatuated by her."

"Antoinette?"

Jiri nodded and Guilbert found himself sighing in relief. Jiri though, had no look of relief upon him. Guilbert watched as Jiri paced some more. "You see, maybe it is because of how she shuns my affections whilst seeking yours and Tomas's. Perhaps it is that she has become so unattainable, but I want her Guilbert. I know she would cuckold me, should any better opportunity come up, but I still find myself yearning for her. I am enamored by her, and let me tell you, there was no shortage of the green-eyed monster in me when she pressed her lips to Tomas's. Even knowing what I know, I could not help but want to wound the boy who gains Antoinette's attentions so easily."

Guilbert nodded. "Your problem is that you are in love with Antoinette?"

"Yes, and that she will not have me. I yearn for Antoinette, but she yearns for Tomas. Tomas, having you, yearns for Antoinette to stop giving you her attentions, and I know you, having your love, yearn for a life where Tomas could be known only as Sarah."

"Ay," Guilbert said, "could a man have envisioned such a mess?"

"Was this not of your bringing?"

Guilbert nodded softly. "Not my intention though."

"I would be very happy to return to the days where it was I who shunned the fair Antoinette's attentions, and sought my only solace in the comfort of curvy maidens within the brothels."

"I'm sorry."

"And now it would be impossible to return to those days. All my thoughts are with Antoinette." A cold breeze blew through them. Guilbert shivered. Jiri turned pensive, looking up into the sky. "Even now, I hear her name whispered upon the wind."

"And this is your problem? That you think you may not be able to win over Antoinette?"

Jiri nodded.

Guilbert smiled. Soon he and Sarah would be gone, and Antoinette's attentions would have to turn somewhere. Jiri need not fret, as Antoinette was surely to land her attentions back where they were before Guilbert arrived. Then he remembered that Jiri stated the problem lie with Tomas and the smile faded. He glanced at Jiri. "And what has this to do with Tomas, other than that Antoinette's fancies are fixed upon him?"

Jiri glanced at Guilbert and then dropped a set of sheepish eyes to the snow covered ground. "That may not be my problem, but yours."

Guilbert frowned. He stared at Jiri, willing the man to meet his eye. "And what is that problem?"

Jiri's sheepish gaze met his. "I may have inadvertently let something slip."

Guilbert breaths stopped. He watched Jiri. Jiri looked down at the ground and then back up at him. "I was trying to dissuade Antoinette from going after Tomas. She had already kissed the youth and was ready to offer her bed to him. I told her, I said, 'remember when I told you that you are too fair for that fair youth," and she looked at me sharply and nodded. I may have also said that the youth was too fair for her." Jiri paused. Guilbert let out a breath. "Perhaps she did not understand."

Jiri shook his head. "She did not." Guilbert watched as Jiri looked down again. "But, when that would not dissuade her, I may have also gone further, told Antoinette not to be fooled, that the body beneath the boy's garments was not the form she sought. I may have told her that it is you who warms the youth's bed." Jiri shifted on his feet. "That point may have also been emphasized when she saw you kiss the delicate youth."


	79. The Bohemian, XXVI

**The Bohemian, XXVI**

Jiri, good-natured at heart, had not really been a concern for them. For Jiri, the revealing of the youth Tomas as the girl Sarah had been a mere slip, accidental and without ill intentions. Jiri, though frivolous he may be, absentminded and careless, did not wish to cause harm and would not take measures to make mischief. It was Antoinette, Guilbert feared.

It wasn't that Antoinette held any malevolence. He was sure, that beneath that pretty exterior and coquettish disposition, Antoinette may yet be a gentle maiden. However, it was known that Antoinette was dangerous in her conquests, a vixen and one capable of cuckolding those she sought if her straying eye wandered to another. She was also known to display a bit of a temper. How would she react to being fooled by Tomas the girl-boy? Would she strike as a victim or lover? Would she feel wounded and seek revenge? Would she let it pass and move on? Would she turn her sights back to him instead and seek to cause a rift between him and his love so that she still take one of them as a prize? Despite his own steadfast reassurances to Sarah, he still felt a knot of unease.

Time built up and the knot twisted tighter, for Antoinette did nothing. She did not strike out by revealing Tomas. She did not turn her attentions firmly to Guilbert. She did not even turn them back to long ignored, Jiri. It was the nothing that caused the greatest unease, for while it should have offered some comfort, it only led to uncertainty.

If Antoinette was going to strike, to place poison upon them, she was not letting it show. In his fears, Guilbert had thought she would have struck by then, revealing Tomas before they were ready to move on to the next job or another town where Sarah could be known only as herself. And strike, he was sure she would, for there could be no relief or comfort found in Antoinette's coy smile.

Guilbert watched Antoinette with cautious observation as Antoinette did nothing but work and glance at them, the coy smile not parting from her face. Her eyes contained none of the innocence Guilbert had once thought he saw in them, but instead were narrowed in self-satisfaction.

"Was there anything more to what you let slip to Antoinette?" he asked Jiri one day.

"Nothing more than what I told you," Jiri answered before letting out a long sigh. "Perhaps, she did not understand and my heedless mistake came to nothing."

Guilbert glanced at Antoinette who met his eye with her own dancing eyes and upturned lips. He shook his head. "She did not misunderstand."

Jiri sighed again, dragging out the sound in dramatic fashion. "Then, tell me, how is it that she still will not return my attentions? For if she knows you and Tomas to be unavailable, why will she not return her sights to me? She ignores my every attempt at wooing."

Guilbert, distracted by his own focus on Antoinette's recent mannerisms, could do not but shake his head. "I do not know, Jiri."

"Is it not possible she thinks that your fancy lies in tender boys, and the tender youth, Tomas's fancy in men as well?"

Guilbert turned his narrowed eyes to Jiri. His face wore the mask of the puzzled. For it was possible Antoinette understood he and Tomas to be no more than lovers. He glanced back at Antoinette, still with her sly smirk and shook his head again. "No, for there is something behind that expression."

He watched as Jiri glanced towards Antoinette, but knew Jiri would not see, for Jiri was watching with the eyes of a man in yearning. Jiri's eyes turned back, but could not quite meet his. "Tell me, Guilbert, how does one win the charms of such a lovely young lady?"

"I would know not how."

"But you have before, so you must know something," Jiri pleaded.

Guilbert shook his head. He turned to Tomas and looked upon the youth working with a tender smile. "I won Sarah with my awkwardness…and perhaps our mutual curiosity. It was mere luck that the girl I loved saw something of a man beneath the wandering awkward boy."

"I speak not of your wife," Jiri said, sounding rather annoyed, "but of Antoinette, for you won her with your charms as well."

Guilbert looked at Jiri with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. "I did not. I believe Antoinette to be wavering in her affections. She turns her attentions to whatever is new."

Guilbert watched as Jiri's lips turned up at the corners. "Perhaps then, it is time for me to leave and a new lover to return."

Jiri turned and strolled towards the door. Guilbert watched him leave with a puzzled brow.

* * *

Sarah watched as Guilbert moved silently about their small flat. She did not ask him what concerned him, nor did she try to halt his anxious pacing. Instead, she sat upon the bed, her legs hanging over the side and her feet planted upon the ground, observing Guilbert's movements.

Guilbert stopped and looked down at her. His expression turned tender and Sarah felt her lips curl up into a soft smile. Guilbert moved to pace again, but Sarah caught hold of his hand and gave it a tug. He stopped before her and looked at her again.

She did not know how to broach what was bothering him, or perhaps it was her fear of what he might say that held her words back. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and looked up at him, taking a minute to compose her words. "What is it?" she finally asked.

Guilbert shook his head. He looked down at her. "Do you think it would be too burdensome to travel, now?"

Sarah cocked her head to the side. "Leave, now?"

He nodded.

"There is still a large covering of snow and the chill outside has increased this past week. The temperature has dropped severely." She felt herself pause. "Why? Did something happen?"

Guilbert shook his head.

"Then what is it?"

"I feel as though Antoinette is up to some mischief."

Sarah felt herself tense. It was one of the things she feared he might say. Slowly, she nodded. She had noticed Antoinette's coy smiles and felt the same, though she had fearing making mention of it to Guilbert, who, she had been sure, would have told her that her fears were the creation of her own insecurities. She had passed off those fears as such, herself. Now, Guilbert was mentioning his own misgivings to her. She would be perfectly content to steal away in the night if she felt that they could survive it. However, they'd just experienced a few days of severe weather, and it did not look as though the weather was going to take a turn for the better anytime soon. They would be frozen before morning. They had to wait for a bit of a thaw before they could think of leaving.

Sarah tugged on Guilbert's hand, pulling him down to her. He kneeled before her and she placed her hands softly on his cheeks, watching him shiver from the chill of fingers. He stared into her eyes for a moment before taking his hands in his and holding them before his mouth, breathing warm breaths onto them to warm them. "It's too cold," she said and he nodded softly.

"Perhaps, Antoinette will not do anything," she whispered, pulling her hands from his and placing them back on his cheeks. She brushed her thumbs over his cheekbones.

Guilbert wrapped his arms around her. "The first thaw and we will make for Kolin, and then onto Pardubice where we will find a way to pay back Jan and Marta without your father finding out. From there we can move onto anywhere." He paused and peered up at her. "Perhaps to Nymburk, so that I can share with you the first place I found inspiration?"

Tears in her eyes, Sarah nodded and drew Guilbert's face up for a long kiss. When their lips parted, Guilbert held her to him tightly. Sarah closed her eyes and let her head fall upon his shoulder. She rested there, relishing the feel of him, solid and warm when everything about them was so cold. His body warded off the chill of the drafty room and the chill of the fears she'd been holding in ever since she ran away from her home.

She was nearly asleep when Guilbert drew away. Her eyes fluttered open to watch him stand and draw back the covers on the bed, pulling them back to where she sat. Then, he unfastened his doublet and placed it at the foot of the bed. His fingers worked at her doublet, drawing it from her body and placing next to his. He removed her boots and then her breeches, and lifted her legs, helping her into the bed. Removing his own boots, he climbed in with her.

His arms came around her, drawing her back into his warm embrace. She grabbed one arm, wrapped it around her shoulder and drew it into her chest so that she could rest upon his shoulder. "Where did Jiri go today?" she asked.

Guilbert tugged her in closer. She felt him tense slightly. "He is gone to make himself a new man, I think to return as another, someone who may be able to capture Antoinette's fancy."

Sarah closed her eyes. "Is there not enough confusion and deception yet?"

Guilbert said nothing. Sarah turned slightly, curling into him. "Do you think he will succeed?"

Guilbert sighed against her. "If Antoinette does not feel wounded enough by our ruse, I fear Jiri's trickery will not go over well."

"Has this ruse not been cruel enough?"

"Ours was out of necessity," he said, his voice sad and sincere. She felt him pause to place a kiss upon her hair. "Perhaps it will all turn out. Perhaps Jiri will return before Antoinette can strike. Perhaps Jiri will win her heart with his flattery and in the process, learn a more mature love himself," he whispered.

Sarah nodded, uncertain and knowing that the misgivings were not only her own. Guilbert shared them. "Will we still leave at first thaw?" she asked.

"Yes, Sarah."

The cold winter wind howled outside them. A chilly breeze hit the shutters and the draft caused Sarah to shiver. "I hope that comes soon. It's very cold."

Guilbert pulled his arm from her grasp and moved over to blanket her. The length of his body was atop hers, hard and warm and very pleasant. His lips pressed to hers. "Perhaps we should generate our own warmth."

Sarah looked up at Guilbert, her eyes smiling. She felt the heat of his body soaked right through her. Her cold hands worked beneath his garments, causing him to shiver from the touch. His cool hands slipped to the skin beneath her chemise and left her quivering.


End file.
